Atlantis
by hollygofightly
Summary: When Emma Harrow receives a letter that might finally explain the mystery of her brother's whereabouts, she finds herself in Atlantic City, where she meets a kindred spirit with troubles of her own. But will Richard's lifestyle draw her in, as well? Based on an idea from b-hind-ths-hazl-eyes on Tumblr. Takes place at the end of and after S3. Please r&r!
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't like Richard to be gone all night. His unerring sense of responsibility was what had convinced her to hire him in the first place, helping her to see past the off-putting mask and the voice that sent chills down her spine. Well, that and his obvious affinity for Tommy, but look how that had turned out.

It infuriated her that he hadn't thought to call, as if her needs had no value to him. It was downright selfish, in fact. She knew that he was plotting to take Tommy away from her, as if his position as the boy's caretaker entitled him somehow to make decisions for his supposed well-being. But _she_ was Tommy's real family; his place was with her, no matter what.

Her bedroom was bathed in the azure glow of approaching dawn, and she accepted that sleep had evaded her for the night, as it so often had since Jimmy had been ripped away from her. The old house was disturbingly quiet, almost as if she really were alone within its aging walls. She rose and dressed in the first frock she could find, a steely grey velvet number that made her look sophisticated, if a tad out of fashion. Hoping that perhaps he had returned in the brief moments of sleep she had managed to procure for herself that night, she decided to check Richard's room for a sign of him.

That it was empty did not surprise her. She stood in the doorway, her hand quivering on the handle and eyes shut tight while she fought back a wave of frustration. It would do her no good to let her anger get the better of her just yet, not when she could not use it to her advantage. Instead, she opened her eyes with the calm and control that made her lifestyle possible, and found herself looking into the modest room with newfound curiosity, acutely aware of how little she knew of the man she had charged with the most important parts of her life—her business and her child. Surely, it wouldn't hurt to take a little peek.

She took a seat at the desk, taking a moment to consider what use it might have for the room's occupant. Until recently, she hadn't believed that he had any friends, and he had never spoken of family. Just then a sepia-toned photograph caught her eye, of a young man and young woman seated side-by-side on an old porch. The man looked vaguely familiar, like he could be Richard's brother, but his face was whole and the hopeful glint in his eye was something she couldn't possibly imagine in her battle-hardened helper. She realized that she had never really considered his life outside of their old house, but the lipstick on his mask several weeks ago had shown her that he clearly had another life entirely that he felt he must keep from her. His reticence offended her, but she tried not to dwell on it much.

She opened a drawer to find a small stack of notebooks—one of them appeared to be a bible—and suddenly couldn't contain her curiosity. She gingerly lifted the bible's cover to reveal pages covered in clippings—newspaper articles, magazine illustrations—of lovesick couples and happy families. It was sweet, if not a little strange, but she could easily relate to the unrealized desire for normalcy. She had wanted the same for herself for as long as she could remember, but she'd been little more than a child when Jimmy was conceived and any prospects she'd had proved to be pipe dreams, in the end.

She continued to flip through the paste-thickened pages, pausing towards the book's end on a sketch of him sans mask (a sight she had never, in the many years she had known him, seen with her own eyes). On the opposite page was a photograph of a strikingly handsome young soldier, his dark, intense eyes cutting to her core. She felt a swell of attraction for him before realizing that it was only Richard, pre-injury. She thought for a moment of what might have been, had she met him before the war had taken half of his face and God knows what else.

She shook herself from her increasingly naughty thoughts and closed the bible, then lifted it to move onto the next little book in the stack. On the first page was a photograph of Richard, Tommy, and a girl she didn't recognize. The girl was quite pretty, with flaxen hair and a sweet face. Richard's face was turned toward her, awash in admiration, hiding his mask in the process. The three of them looked like a normal, happy little family. The thought made Gillian's blood boil.

_How dare he?_ She knew he was plotting to take Tommy away from her, and this photograph proved it. He was going to steal the only thing she had left in this world in order to create some illusion of a perfect life for himself. But Tommy wasn't his to steal. He belonged with her, and without him she had nothing. The longer she stared at the picture, the more her worry built up inside of her. She could not let this happen.

She pulled another notebook towards her, and an envelope slipped out from between its pages; it was addressed to PFC Richard Harrow with a series of numbers and accented letters reminiscent of Jimmy's address during the war. The return address read "E. Harrow," Plover, Wisconsin. Gillian had never heard of Plover, but she opened the envelope all the same.

It was immediately clear that "E. Harrow" was Richard's sister, and from the tone of the letter, they were very close. Yet, in three years, he had never spoken of her. She slipped the letter into her pocket, well aware that it could prove useful in the future.

Suddenly, the door opened and Richard stood at his room's threshold, staring quizzically at her. She closed the book quickly and looked up at him, immediately regaining her composure. "I hope you don't mind," she said, as sweetly as she could manage. "You were gone all night. I was beginning to get...rather worried."

He avoided her eyes as he growled something about losing track of the time. The lie only added to her anger.

"That happens when you're in love," she said, though she herself knew little about it. Still, she could read it on the good half of his face, as she had in the photograph before her. "You are, aren't you?"

He looked at her for a moment, his chin raised defiantly, but quickly turned again so that his emotions were blocked by that discomforting mask.

"No need to be embarrassed," she continued. "I envy you—a little. But—" She rose from the chair, choosing her words carefully. "—you have to be careful."

He looked at her, his expression difficult to decipher. "About what?"

"Dreaming of things," she went on, the photograph still fresh in her mind, "that cannot possibly come to pass; that were never yours to begin with. Because that will only end up hurting you."

She walked towards the door, the envelope with his sister's letter burning a hole in her pocket. As she passed him, she caught a whiff of salty air, and with it a host of hopes and dreams that she had once entertained but had long since abandoned. An image of a sunny little island, and of a handsome suitor with a sailboat who had made love to her on the beach while young Jimmy played nearby, rushed to the forefront of her memory. She had been so young, her whole life ahead of her; it seemed another life entirely now, but the scent still brought the memory flooding back. "You smell of the sea," she said softly, dreamily, then left him standing in his own doorway.

The plan seemed to formulate itself in the long, lonely hallway. In the solitude of her room, she retrieved a pen and paper and set to work writing a letter, a letter that would save her, a letter that would keep Tommy here with her.

* * *

Summer had come early that year. Emma stood on the porch, arms akimbo, surveying her little farm and considering the damage that a lengthy spell of heat might cause come autumn. She had hoped for a bountiful harvest this year, but she'd be lucky to grow a thing. Perhaps it was time to finally sell the farm and seek occupation elsewhere, but she knew it was a silly idea. Farming was all she knew, and she would not abandon it. Not like Richard had.

The thought of her brother filled her with an odd mixture of hope and hopelessness. She hated him for leaving her, for rejecting her love when they both needed it most. It had been three years since she'd heard from him, and still the wound felt fresh as the morning she had awoken to find his bed abandoned. She shuddered at the thought.

"Hello, Ms. Harrow!" It was Mr. Kimble, the postman. He'd brought the mail for as long as she could remember, only taking a day off when his son had died in the war. She remembered the special little whistle he would give her when bearing correspondence from her brother, and she felt a pang of sadness for his loss as he approached the porch.

"Hello, Mr. Kimble. How's Marla?"

"She's fine. Still nagging at me to retire."

"That's what wives are for."

"What about you? When are you going to settle down?"

"Now, now, you know I'm needed here. Have you brought me untold riches today?"

"Oh, just a few bills." He shuffled through a few letters and paused on one. "Tell me, who do you know in Atlantic City?"

Emma shrugged. "No one I can recall."

"Well, you've got a fancy-lookin' envelope here from someplace called the Artemis Club. Must be a secret admirer."

"Real secret." She took the letter from him, studying it inquisitively.

"I'll leave you to it, then."

"Thank you, Mr. Kimble." She hadn't taken her eyes off of the envelope, studying the looping handwriting and searching the recesses of her memory for some clue as to its contents. Coming up short, she slit it open with her finger.

"_Dear Ms. Harrow,_

_My name is Gillian Darmody, and I am the proprietor of the Artemis Club in Atlantic City. I believe your brother, Richard, is our caretaker."_

She fell into an empty chair, knees weakened at the prospect that her brother's whereabouts might have finally been revealed. Heart pounding in her chest, she continued to read.

"_I am writing to you out of concern for you brother's mental state. It has come to my attention that he has engaged in questionable practices, some downright dangerous. As one of his duties is to watch over my son, you can see why I feel that something must be done. I urge you to come to Atlantic City to try to lead your brother home. I care very much for him and fear that this city has done him irreparable harm, and I hope that you will understand."_

Emma dropped the letter to her lap, mind reeling. She had no idea how he could have ended up in such a place as Atlantic City, and even less what he could possibly be doing that might be considered dangerous. True, his role in the war hadn't been to tuck the enemy soldiers into bed at night, but surely there had been some mistake. And yet the letter was addressed to her, and this was the closest she had come to having any idea of his location in years. As if in a trance, she rose and went inside to pack.


	2. Chapter 2

Her nerves didn't set in until the train was well on its way, barreling through the plains towards the rising sun and carrying with it all the hopes and dreams of the past three years. Emma still couldn't reconcile Gillian's fears with the illusion of her brother that she held so dear. The Richard of her memory was shy, gentle, and full of love—nevermind that she hadn't seen that side of him since before the war. She simply refused to accept that he could be gone forever.

In hindsight, the worst part hadn't even been his leaving. A part of her could understand his need for space—he had experienced something in the war that had left him profoundly altered, separating him irrevocably from her. They had spent their entire lives as each other's entire worlds. There were no other children their age in Plover, and anyway their parents wouldn't have dreamed of allowing them to socialize when there was work to be done. For as long as she could remember, all they had in the world was each other. She supposed, looking back, that she had taken it for granted that it would always be that way.

No, the worst part had not been him leaving; it was being left alone. Ma and Pa were both in the ground before he even made it back from France; Dusty, their loyal old hound, had run off one day and never returned (she always secretly pretended that he gone to look for Richard). By 1920, she had been left with no one, and no one to understand the storm of complex emotions that Richard had left in his wake. He was so much more than a brother—he was half of her soul. He was a part of her, and he was gone.

She ordered a stale cup of coffee from the cart and settled into her seat, gazing at the moonlit scenery as she sipped the burnt blackness and willed herself not to be afraid. She had always dreamed of travel; as children, she had regaled Richard with stories of far off lands that she had only read of in books. Richard would sit in awe, listening intently to her tales, but he had been content to keep their subjects at arm's reach and remain in the safety of their farmhouse until the end of time. It was ironic how their roles had reversed in adulthood.

She could just see him, his face still handsome behind that silly mask, a bright smile spreading across his weakened lips at the sight of her. She would take his hand, like she had so many times before, and lead him all the way back to Plover. They would never need to part again, as close as they had been in the fields and forests of home. There was no need to plan further; there was no doubt in her mind that it would come to fruition.

The Midwest swept by her in a blur of wheat fields and stars, and she barely noticed the droop of her eyelids as she let herself sink into a warm memory of her beloved brother, in a forest clearing with her hands on his and his hands on a rifle, and let the building excitement at the thought of their long-anticipated reunion carry her off into dreamland.

* * *

The Artemis Club turned out to be a large Queen Anne Victorian, its porch and windows framed by ornate rounded archways that reminded Emma distinctly of a dollhouse, albeit none that she had ever owned (Ma and Pa Harrow never placed much stock in toys). The site of it would have filled her with pride for her brother's success, if not for the policemen milling about. She pulled Gillian's letter from her handbag, double-checking the address. This indeed was the place.

She approached a bored-looking cop, standing guard over the perimeter. "Excuse me, officer," she began, but he held up a warning hand to her face.

"Stay back, ma'am. This is a crime scene."

"But I'm supposed to meet my brother—"

"Your brother sure as hell ain't here, sweetheart."

"What about—" She glanced at the letter. "Gillian Darmody? She's the proprietor."

"Listen, there's nobody here."

A few more cops filtered out of the open front doors, and she strained as inconspicuously as she could to peek inside. "What happened, if you don't mind me asking?"

"You tell me. We found about twenty bodies in there a few days ago."

Emma's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my," she gasped.

The officer turned his head as another beckoned him to the porch. "Excuse me, ma'am," he said with a nod.

"Thank you for your assistance," she called after him. She stared at the house for a moment, searching for a clue as to where to turn next. Here she stood, in unfamiliar surroundings, the plans she had formulated on her long journey dashed in one fell swoop.

* * *

How she found the boardwalk, she couldn't be sure, though from the sheer size of it she supposed that all roads must have led here. She had simply let her feet take her towards the easterly sun, from whence it climbed ever higher into the sky, until she found herself atop a bluff overlooking the sea. The boardwalk spread before her like the ribbon stretched around a beautifully wrapped gift, existing in that moment just for her.

She had never seen anything like it. The criss-crossing planks of its surface bustled with summer crowds, the lights glittering even in the bright mid-morning light. Gleeful shouts and the sparkling laughter of children mingled with the calls of the gulls overhead and the crashing of the sea against the shore. The scent of salt water and popcorn and cotton candy filled her nostrils, and suddenly she was an excited little girl, transported to a dreamland of fun and frivolity. She had to physically restrain herself from running to join the throng.

With the creaking of the wooden boards underfoot, she began to lose herself in the flock of tourists milling around her. She bought an ice cream cone, licking its sticky sweetness with innocent delight as she made her way past the shops and restaurants. Though she felt out of place in her old handmade dress, she could nevertheless feel her mouth breaking into a smile, and suddenly she was overwhelmed with happiness knowing that, of all of the places in the world, her brother might have ended up in one that held such joy.

She had to steady herself suddenly as a small object collided with her legs; she turned to find a young boy, no more than six years of age, with rosy cheeks and dark, serious eyes, studying her face intently. He reminded her of a young Richard, and she was immediately taken with him.

"Tommy!" a voice called from behind the boy. A young blonde woman trotted up, scooping the boy's hand into her own. "I thought we talked about this. You can't go running off like that." She turned to Emma, her pale blue eyes apologetic. "I'm sorry about that."

"It's no bother," Emma answered kindly. "Your son is adorable. Is he all right?"

"He's not my son, but I'm sure he's fine. He's been through worse than running into a stranger on the boardwalk." She extended a confident hand. "I'm Julia."

"Emma. Nice to meet you." The ladies shook hands; Julia studied Emma's face with an odd mix of curiosity and vague recognition, then shook herself back to the present. "He reminds me of my brother."

"Mine too. Listen, let me at least buy you a cup of coffee or something. I saw how hard he hit you."

"It's really nothing. It was an accident." She began to turn to go, but the idea of having a friend with whom to share this new experience was too much for Emma to pass up for the sake of manners. "A cup of coffee does sound lovely, though."

The corners of Julia's lips turned up in a smile. "Good. I could use some company who's not six years old."

"You're in luck, then," Emma smiled. "I turned seven last week."

* * *

In all of her days, Julia had only felt such an immediate connection to one other person. Emma was bright and talkative; there wasn't a moment of silence between them from the moment she had accepted Julia's invitation. It had been ages since she had been able to speak so freely—even Richard had been difficult to engage at times, and she had always assumed that speaking in and of itself was a chore for him. But Emma proved an easy conversationalist, describing her life in the country with such passion and clarity that she could almost smell the ripening corn. For her part, Julia talked about Tommy, leaving out the part where his warden had shown up on her doorstep in the dead of night, covered in blood.

"So Emma," she said, sipping her coffee and changing the subject, "What brings you all the way out here?"

"I'm looking for someone, but I don't really know where to start."

"You picked a wrong time to be looking for someone here. It's tourist season."

"I was starting to realize that. Still," she sighed, a far off look in her eyes, "it's not a bad place to be stuck in for a time."

"Try being stuck here for 24 years." She rolled her eyes, suddenly jealous of Emma's bright-eyed optimism. Though the boardwalk had once been magical to her, the realities of life had long since faded its sparkle.

"Trust me, anything feels like a prison after a while. You're only in trouble when you stop trying to escape."

Before she knew it, they had lost track of time and Tommy was tugging on her sleeve. "Julia," he said with his signature sweetness, "I wanna go home."

"I suppose it is getting late. Hey, listen." She turned to Emma, imploringly. "Do you like pot roast? I always make too much, and if you don't have plans for dinner—"

"I love pot roast." Her new friend said enthusiastic, a broad smile spreading across her face.


	3. Chapter 3

By dinnertime, the conversation had yet to die down. Emma had helped Julia with the cooking, despite her new friend's protests, and the resulting spread was a delectable slice of home. The girls talked throughout the meal, with Julia's father, Paul, throwing in dryly-witty one-liners that made Emma long for such an easy familial connection.

"Your father is lovely," Emma said, as they washed the dishes after the last drops of _au jus_ had been licked from their plates and the boys had retired to their rooms.

"You caught him in the right mood. You should've seen him a week ago." A darkness crossed Julia's face, and Emma felt guilty for inadvertently reminding her of whatever terrible recollection was rushing through her mind.

"Our father only had one mood, and it wasn't a pleasant one." She knew it was wrong to speak ill of the dead, but she couldn't help herself.

"I take it you weren't close."

Emma laughed. "He loved me in his own way, but no, we weren't close. I was really only ever close to my brother."

"What's he like?"

She thought of him before the war, and smiled. "Wonderful. Shy with most everyone, but never with me. He has the biggest heart of anyone I've ever known. We were inseparable, growing up."

"Were?"

Her smile faded. "Something got in the way."

"A woman?"

"A war."

Julia scrubbed at a plate, staring down into the soapy depths of the sink. "We lost Freddy in the war."

"Your brother?"

Julia nodded. "He was an athlete—a damn fine one, at that. Dad thought he would get a scholarship, but he enlisted and we couldn't stop him. He wanted to prove himself."

"Sounds familiar." Emma dried the last dish and set it in the cupboard with the others. She twisted the rag in her hand and asked, "Is Tommy Freddy's son?"

"Tommy," Julia sighed, "belonged to a good friend of mine. I'm watching him until...well, actually I'm not sure for how long."

"That's kind of you."

"I didn't really have much of a say in the matter."

"It's all right," Emma said quickly, sensing that this was a difficult subject. "I didn't mean to pry. He's a good kid."

"That he is. Honestly, I don't mind. I always wanted kids, and Dad's really taken to him. I think it's almost like having Freddy back." She glanced at the clock. "Oh Lord, look at the time! Where are you staying? I can give you a lift."

Emma wiped her hands with the dishtowel, embarrassed. "Actually, I don't know where I'm staying. I sort of thought I'd be heading home by now."

"Then you'll stay here."

"No, I couldn't." Emma blushed; she couldn't imagine putting the Sagorskys out any further.

"It's not up for discussion. You can have my bed."

"Julia, really. You've done more than enough for me already."

Julia took her hand, looking her in the eyes. "Please, Emma. You're the first friend I've made since—" She swallowed, her words catching in her throat.

Emma nodded, unsure of how to thank her. "I can help you with Tommy. I'm not nearly as good with kids as my brother is, but I'm sure I can be of some use."

"Honestly, just having you here is enough. You have no idea how lonely it can be."

"Trust me," Emma said, "I know all about loneliness." Her friend squeezed her hand, and she smiled until she noticed that look of vague recognition in Julia's eyes, same as the one with which Tommy and Paul had looked upon her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Julia said, shaking herself back to the present. "You just...remind me of someone."

As Emma settled into Julia's small but comfortable bed, she thought about her friend's statement but decided not to give it much thought; she felt her eyes drooping as her body succumbed to the exhaustion of the day. Regardless of what tomorrow held, she knew she would sleep well tonight.

* * *

Morning was a welcomed buzz of chatter and activity. Emma rose early and surprised the Sagorskys with a country breakfast for the ages: fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, roasted potatoes glazed with butter and herbs from the garden, and a sinfully moist coffee cake topped with pools of buttery brown sugar.

"Julia," Paul said, as Emma poured his coffee, "You should bring strangers home more often."

"I can't believe all of this!" Julia was thrilled. "You really shouldn't have."

"I never get to cook like this anymore," Emma said, waving off her friend's protestations. "Always seems like a waste for just me. And it's the least I could do to repay you for your hospitality."

Tommy's eyes widened at his heaping plate. He took a too-big bite and mumbled, "These eggs are better than my mother's."

"Now Tommy," Emma said softly, kneeling down beside him, "that's quite a compliment, but when you get to be my age you'll realize that nothing will ever taste as good as your mama's cooking. Eat up."

She ruffled his hair and took her seat.

"Are you going to attend to your business again today?" Julia had at least waited until her mouth was empty before speaking.

"I suppose so, although I really don't know where to begin."

"I can go with you—" Julia started.

"No!" Emma hadn't meant to raise her voice. She couldn't be sure why, but she felt she had to protect her friend from whatever danger Richard's whereabouts might place her in. "I can handle myself."

"Says the farm girl," Paul stuffed a strip of bacon into his mouth.

"Dad's right," Julia chimed in. "It's been dangerous around here lately. I don't think you should stay out too late alone."

"I promise to be home before dark," Emma smiled. It was nice to be worried about. She took a bite of her eggs and spent the rest of the meal enjoying the little family's company while the day's plans nagged at the back of her mind.

* * *

A handful of policemen were still milling about the shell of the Artemis Club when Emma arrived, but she thought it best to avoid them for the time being. Instead, she stopped a passerby and asked for any information he might have.

"You gotta talk to Nucky Thompson," was his response. "He runs this town."

"And where might I find this Nucky Thomspon?"

"Try the Ritz, on the boardwalk."

She thanked him, masking her curiosity. She had assumed Mr. Thompson was some sort of political figure, but what would the mayor be doing at the Ritz? She supposed there was still a lot she stood to learn about this town, and the Ritz seemed as good a place as any to start.

* * *

Emma marched into the glitzy hotel, acutely aware that her old dress looked far shabbier than usual when surrounded by so much glamour. But she had never been one for self-doubt, and she knew she had her confidence to thank when the concierge pointed her towards Mr. Thompson's office without question. For a moment, she assumed it would all be far easier than she had feared.

That assumption was quickly challenged by the armed guards milling about Mr. Thompson's suite. "Can I help you, lady?"

Emma lifted her chin in defiance. "I need to speak with Mr. Thompson."

"That ain't gonna happen."

She retrieved the letter from her pocket and showed it to the guard; his face paled and he ushered her inside.

Mr. Thompson's office was dripping with class and wealth, from its rich wood paneling to the elegant furniture and the plush carpet underfoot. The man himself looked up from his desk when the door opened, the heavy bags under his eyes giving him the look of someone beaten down by the world. "Dammit, Brennan, what the fuck am I paying you for?"

"To...keep people out, sir?"

Mr. Thompson rolled his eyes. The man rushed forward, holding out Gillian's letter. Mr. Thompson's face darkened further as he studied the envelope, and he looked at Emma with chilling focus.

"Where did you get this?"

Emma swallowed, her confidence swayed by the strangely commanding way with which Mr. Thompson presented himself, but she had come too far to lose her nerve so soon. "Gillian Darmody," she said clearly, hoping the name would mean something to him.

"Get out," Mr. Thompson said to Brennan, and beckoned Emma forward. When the door had closed, he addressed her with far more warmth than she expected. "I apologize," he said, handing her back the letter and offering her a seat before his desk. "I've had a difficult couple of weeks."

"No need to explain, Mr. Thompson. I appreciate your seeing me."

"Would you mind telling me who you are?"

"My name is Emma Harrow." She couldn't be sure, but she thought she saw a flash of recognition behind the man's eyes. "I received a letter from Gillian Darmody, asking me to come out here to take my brother home. I have reason to believe he is in trouble."

"What would Gillian have to do with that?"

"He works for her; his name is Richard Harrow. Perhaps you know him?"

Mr. Thompson had his back to her, mixing a drink for himself at the beverage cart beside his desk, but she could have sworn she saw his muscles tense at the mention of her brother's name. "Can't say that I do," he said.

"Well, I'm sure you know Gillian Darmody."

He turned to her, his eyes awash with suspicion. "What makes you say that?"

"I may run a farm, but I'm not stupid, Mr. Thompson."

He sighed, taking a long sip. "I can tell you where to find her, but I would suggest that you proceed with caution. This is a dangerous time to be in Atlantic City."

"So I've heard."

His mouth pursed into an almost-smile, "I like you," he said, and went to his desk to scribble something on a sheet of notepaper. "You can find her at this address. And I'll keep an eye out for your brother."

"Thank you, sir." She stood to leave, curious about his statement. How could he keep an eye out for a man he had never met?

* * *

The address Mr. Thompson had so generously offered turned out to belong to Saint Theresa's Hospital, and a kindly nurse led her to the last bed in a large room. Its occupant sat up against her pillows, trembling slightly with a vacant look on her face as she stared listlessly out the window. Emma tentatively approached her.

"Ms. Darmody?"

Gillian turned towards her, eyes sunken in her pallid face and a thick layer of sweat dampening her brow and her lovely red hair. "Do we know each other?"

"My name is Emma Harrow," she said, retrieving the familiar letter and holding it out to her.

Gillian smiled sweetly. "You came."

"As soon as I received it. I was on the first train out."

"I only wish I'd written sooner." Gillian looked exhausted, turning back towards the window as she seemed to choke back a spasm of pain.

"I went to the Artemis Club—"

"I'm afraid the Artemis Club is no more. I had hoped it would be my legacy, but your brother thought otherwise."

Emma took Gillian's hand; the woman looked mildly offended, but clearly couldn't muster the energy to pull away. "Please, Ms. Darmody. Do you have any idea where I could find my brother?"

Gillian shook her head slowly. "If only I did. You should check with his little girlfriend. What was her name? Jessica, Jospehine—"

Emma stifled a shocked laugh at the idea of her brother having a girlfriend—the only girl he'd ever had any involvement with other than her was Jenny Hastings, and she'd had the distinct impression that hadn't cared for her either way. "Do you know where I might find her?"

The patient shrugged, which appeared to take a great deal of effort. A nurse approached with a large hypodermic needle. "It's time for your medicine, Miss Darmody."

Emma took this as her cue to leave. "Can I come visit again tomorrow?"

"I don't see why not," Gillian answered. "Nobody else does."

Emma nodded and turned to go. She was halfway towards the door when Gillian called out to her.

"When you find your brother—" The nurse plunged the needle into her arm, and she closed her eyes as the mystery medicine flowed through her veins. "Tell him," she continued, quietly, painstakingly, "Tell him I want my son back."


	4. Chapter 4

Twilight was descending by the time Emma returned to the Sagorskys' humble abode. She had spent the remainder of her afternoon covering every inch of the boardwalk, her eyes peeled for a glimpse of the tin mask or his newsboy cap or even the familiar bashful smile, which she hoped he hadn't lost by now. She thought she saw him in the busy flea circus, but it must have been a figment of her imagination because when she'd blinked, he was gone.

The house was a welcome sight after the strange events of the day. Nucky Thompson had made her nervous, his tortured eyes betraying a cold, calculated danger that she had last seen in Richard's on the night before his disappearance. Gillian's haggard appearance made the mystery of the Artemis Club all the more disconcerting; Emma had no idea what had left her in that weakened state, so at odds with the vision she'd held in her head of the strong, imposing woman that the letter's tone had suggested, but it couldn't have been good. If this was her brother's Atlantic City, then she was glad to leave it to him and spend as much time in the midst of Julia's kindness as she possibly could before the needs of the farm called her home.

Dinner was already on the table when she came in. "I'm sorry," Julia said, wiping her hands on her apron. "I wanted to wait for you, but-"

"Don't apologise," Emma smiled. "This looks wonderful." She took her seat, eager to tuck into the feast before her.

"So," Paul said around a mouthful of peas, "find what you were looking for today?"

"Not exactly."

"Dad, it's none of our business," Julia admonished. "Tommy, eat your vegetables."

"I don't like vegitles."

She leaned in and whispered something in his ear, and he began to spoon peas into his mouth. Emma was touched by the sight of the two of them; Julia may not have been Tommy's mother, but they had a noticeable intimacy that was at once endearing and somehow profoundly sad. Emma wanted to throw her arms around them both and thank them for being a beacon of happy home life for a woman left alone for far too long already, but instead she merely took another bite and tried not to think about the pit of loneliness that Richard had left inside of her all those years ago.

When the plates were cleared, Paul turned to Tommy. "How'd you like to go to the pictures, sport?"

Tommy's face lit up and he nodded excitedly.

"Dad, I can't take him out right now."

"But I wanna go!" Tommy whined.

"I thought I'd take him."

Julia cocked a skeptical eyebrow. "Really?"

"What? I thought you could use a night off." He turned to Tommy, "What do you say, old man? Go get your coat."

Tommy jumped up from his seat and rushed out of the room. Julia was still staring at her father, clearly at a loss for how to respond. He gave her a weary smile and rose to leave.

When it was just the two of them left at the table, Julia looked at her slyly. "What?" Emma said, unable to decipher the smile on her friend's face.

Julia brought a finger to her lips until the front door slammed shut and they knew they were alone. "Now that Dad's gone," she said, rising and opening the china cabinet. She reached far into the back and pulled out a paper-wrapped cylinder, which she placed definitively on the table before letting the wrapping drop by the wayside to reveal a fancy bottle of red wine.

* * *

"Have you ever been in love?" Julia couldn't believe her own boldness, and blamed the half-empty bottle of wine.

Emma looked thoughtful. "Not the way you mean."

Julia was skeptical. "I have a hard time believing that. Look at you."

"What about me?" she blushed.

"I would kill to be so tall, for one thing."

"Hah! There aren't a lot of eligible bachelors in Plover to begin with."

_Plover; _where had Julia heard that name before? "But you must have known someone."

"Really, only my brother. I love him more than anything, but I suppose that doesn't count."

"No," Julia laughed, "I suppose it doesn't." She sipped her wine. "Can you tell me about him?"

Emma reached back and began unpinning her long, dark hair, fanning it with her fingers to let chestnut waves cascade upon her shoulders as she spoke. "He was a quiet boy; I was the outgoing one. He used to draw pictures, of me and the farm. They were really very good, especially as he got older. He tried to teach me once but I didn't have the patience for it."

Julia smiled, imagining a double of Emma sitting at a makeshift easel, sketching her as she fidgeted in a chair before him.

"I was a better shot than him. Better cook too, but he was better with the animals. He couldn't bring himself to kill a chicken for the longest time, which Pa gave him hell for. But the one thing we could both do was dance."

"I didn't know you were a dancer!"

"Well, I'm not about to go join the Folies, but we knew our way around a dance floor. We used to go to every town social, and we'd dance and dance until they kicked us out. Our cousin said nobody wanted to cut in because we didn't even realize they were there; I suppose he had a point."

"Do you still dance?"

Her face drooped. "Not a step since he left." She drained her glass and reached for the bottle to replenish it. "So what about you? Tell me your great love story."

Julia knew what she would have said a week ago: she would have talked about her first love, the one who made her choose between her father's happiness and her own. But she knew now that that, whatever that was, it was far from love. Richard had shown her that, with his strong hands and world-wearied stare that melted her from within every time it focused on her. She sighed, leaning back in her chair as she chose her words carefully. "Where do I begin? I met him when he helped my dad after one of his stupid boxing matches at the Legion Hall."

"He was a veteran, as well?"

Julia nodded. "I think he said he was a sharpshooter. He has an..." How could she describe his affliction without sounding grotesque? "...injury, from the war. I think it makes it hard for him to make friends. And you might have noticed that I have enough trouble on that front, so it was only natural that we started spending time together, I suppose."

"What sort of things did you do?" Emma had an impish grin on her face, clearly enjoying her story.

"We'd go to the boardwalk, sometimes with Tommy, sometimes on our own. He'd come over here and we'd talk for hours-well, I'd talk, he'd mostly listen. He's very shy."

"Any dancing?" Emma joked.

She couldn't help but smile. "Once. At the Legion Hall. He was a wonderful dancer, himself, but I'm useless." She thought of their first kiss, and felt her cheeks flush.

"I'm sure he's very handsome."

Julia thought about this. He was handsome, disarmingly so, at times; it was a shame that most people could not manage to see past the mask. "He is very handsome, yes." she said, thinking about his eyes and how easily she had lost herself in them. "But that wasn't what drew me to him. I'd never met anyone like him; so honest and sweet. He was the first person in years to make me feel like I was worth something more than just being Dad's wet nurse."

She could tell in Emma's face that she understood. Her friend sipped her wine and asked, "Did you love him?"

"I think I did-I do. I don't know." She stared into the burgundy depths of her glass, thinking of the night on the beach, of the way his touch had sent chills down her spine. "It broke my heart when he left."

"That's understandable."

Julia shook her head, trying to articulate the complex feelings Richard had left in his wake. "It wasn't that he left, although that did hurt a lot. It's that just that...he didn't tell me why."

"How long has it been?"

"A little over a week. I must sound crazy, pining over him like this, but I promise it feels like a lot longer. I tried to look for him, but Dad put a stop to that."

"Why would he do that?"

She shrugged. "He said...he didn't want to be found."

Emma looked at her knowingly. "Sounds familiar."

"I take it you've been through this before."

"My brother left as soon as he was well enough, and I haven't heard from him since."

"And have you tried looking for him?"

Her guest looked up wearily. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

Julia reached out and grasped Emma's hand reassuringly, willing her friend's heartache away. Suddenly, Emma snapped her gaze towards the window, her eyes narrowed intensely.

"What is it?" Julia followed her gaze, suddenly fearful.

Emma kept her focus on the window, but shook her head slowly. "Nothing," she said, her brow still furrowed. "I thought I saw something, but...it's nothing."

* * *

The next morning, with the previous night's imbibing sending waves of pain through her skull, Emma wondered if what she thought she had seen in the window had been little more than a hallucination. But, for a moment, she could have sworn she'd caught the glint of a tin mask in the shadows. She pushed the image from her mind, blaming the drink and conversation for causing her to imagine something so impossible as Richard being so nearby.

After breakfast and walking Tommy to school, Emma returned to St. Theresa's to pay Gillian another visit. She wasn't sure what she had expected to glean from the bitter, careworn woman, but she had no other options ahead of her.

She was fast asleep when Emma arrived, heavy lids closed over bloodshot eyes. In the peacefulness of her slumber, she only trembled a little. Trying not to wake her, Emma took Gillian's hand gently in her own.

The patient stirred, her eyes fluttering open. "Melinda," she said in a soft, girlish voice. "You have to tell Nucky that the man...he did a bad thing to me."

"I'm not Melinda," Emma said as tenderly as possible. "I'm Emma. Emma Harrow."

"Emma," Gillian said dreamily. "Pretty name for a pretty girl."

Emma blushed. "Please, Ms. Darmody. I'm still looking for my brother."

"Your brother..."

"Yes."

"He smelled of the sea."

"I'm sorry?"

"He did. He smelled of the see. I remember because...I went to the sea before...before..."

"Before what, Gillian?"

The broken madame began to cry, tiny, childlike whimpers. Emma squeezed her hand, uncomfortable as ever when faced with such a brazen display of emotion. "Don't cry," she said, as soothingly as possible.

"He did a bad thing," Gillian sobbed.

"Who did, Gillian? Who did a bad thing?"

"He took him...away from me."

"Your son?"

Gillian's eyes fluttered open, lashes flecked with tears. "Jimmy?" she said meakly. "My Jimmy..."

"Ms. Darmody, I'm sorry, but I just don't understand."

A spasm of pain ripped through Gillian's thin frame, and the hand in Emma's clamped hard around her fingers; she couldn't have pulled away if she tried.

"Please, Gillian," Emma pleaded. "Just tell me where to find your son and I'll bring him back to you."

"He was in love. He wouldn't tell me so, but I could see."

"What does that have to do with-"

"He took him to her." Her eyelids lowered again, defeated.

"Who?"

Gillian whispered something indecipherable. Emma leaned in closer.

"What did you say?"

When she said it again, it was unmistakable.

"Julia."


	5. Chapter 5

_Julia_. No matter how common the name, she was certain that it was Miss Sagorsky to whom Gillian had referred. Suddenly the details of Julia's mysterious "friend" rushed to the forefront of Emma's mind: kind, honest, quiet—words that could describe many people but fit Richard so well. And the war injury, the one that made it difficult for him to forge connections with others—could it be covered with a thin panel of painted tin? Emma knew she had no choice but to confront Julia, and that this would mean confronting her own fears about Richard's fate, as well.

When she returned to the Sagorsky's, Paul and Tommy were playing catch in the front yard. Tommy greeted her kindly, but she barely registered his tiny voice as tunnel vision led her into the house.

Julia was sitting in a high-backed chair, mending a pair of shortpants. She looked up when Emma came in, lifting the fabric for her to see. "Freddy's old clothes. He was a bit bigger than Tommy, so I have to take them in—are you all right?"

"I need to ask you something," Emma said, fists clenched as she stood before her, "and I need you to be honest with me."

"Of course," Julia replied, brow furrowed with concern. "Anything."

"Your friend, the one who left Tommy here with you—you said he had an injury."

"Yes, a terrible one." Julia shuddered.

"What was it?"

Julia looked unsure, but responded nonetheless. "It was...his face. He was missing his left eye and part of his cheek, and I think part of his jaw, too."

"And he wore a mask to cover it. A tin mask, painted to look like his face. His face before the war."

"How did you—"

"What was his name?"

Julia swallowed. "His name was...Richard."

Emma took a step forward. "Richard Harrow?"

She could see the spark of recognition on her friend's face and knelt down at Julia's feet. "You're...his sister."

The Harrow girl nodded emphatically, then grasped Julia's hands.

"I knew it," Julia said, quivering blue eyes searching Emma's emphatically. "I can see him in your face. You have the same eyes."

"Well, we are twins." A wide smile spread across Emma's face.

"But you're more outgoing."

"I told you I was."

Julia laughed, then pulled Emma in for a sisterly hug. The Harrows hadn't been an affectionate family, but Julia's arms felt like home. As clear as day, Emma could see Julia helping prepare Christmas dinner on the farm, while Richard played with their children. It would be wonderful to gain not only her brother, but a sister, as well. Emma hated to break the spell of her daydreams, but she knew she must press on.

"There's something else you need to tell me."

Julia nodded, tears in her eyes as if she anticipated the coming question.

"What happened the night my brother brought Tommy to you?"

* * *

It had been little over a week and, though the image of Richard's bloodstained face was still horribly fresh in her mind, the night itself seemed like an eternity ago. "He showed up at our door in the middle of the night," she said, slowly, painstakingly, as the images that kept her awake at night swam behind her eyes, "with Tommy in his arms. His face was covered in blood."

Emma swallowed, clearly sickened but struggling not to show it. "Did he tell you why?"

Julia shook her head. "I don't think he wanted me to see it, but Dad turned on the light."

"Was it his blood?"

"He said it wasn't, but that's even worse. How does someone end up with another man's blood all over their face? I mean, it isn't as if I didn't know he could be capable of...whatever left him that way. He told me what he did in the war, so I know he's killed people, but seeing it with my own eyes was—" The words caught in her throat. She didn't really know how to describe how it had felt. She supposed she should have been afraid of him, but the truth was that she was more afraid _for_ him than anything.

"Do you have any idea what might have caused it?"

"If only I did. I know he was a caretaker for Tommy's grandmother, so I can't imagine what he would have been doing." Had Emma flinched at the mention of Tommy's grandmother?

"When did all of this happen?"

"A little over a week ago. I tried to look for him at first, but Dad made me stop. I didn't know where to find him, anyway."

"Why did Paul make you stop?"

"He said...he didn't want to be found."

Emma looked down, eyes narrowed. "Sounds familiar."

"He's done this before?"

She nodded. "He was only home for a month before he disappeared. I only found out he had gone to Chicago when the veterans' hospital contacted me. I wasn't even sure he was still alive until I received Gillian's letter."

Julia sank back in her chair, suddenly terrified for Richard's safety and wracked with guilt in the face of all she clearly did not know about this man she loved so dearly. "What did the letter say?"

"Not much. She was worried about his mental state. Made it sound like he was dangerous."

"But he's not!" Not her Richard. Her Richard was gentle and kind, though in all fairness she had seen him threaten her father more than once. He had choked Paul to the point of passing out, and she was now certain he would have finished the job had she not intervened.

"Julia, I don't doubt that you know my brother well, but there are some things you don't know about him. About us."

"Then tell me. I need to know."

Emma shook her head. "I can't."

"You have to." She grabbed Emma's hand, staring into her eyes imploringly. "Emma, I'm in love with your brother. He means more to me than anything in the world. Nothing you say will change that."

Emma sat back on her feet, fighting back unseen demons. "When we were little—ten, I think—there were these vagrants that kept robbing the farms in the area. They broke my father's leg when he caught them in our barn. I heard them come back one night, maybe a month after that, and I went to go do something about them."

"But you were just a girl."

"I didn't say it was a brilliant plan, but I've always been too bold for my own good." She took a deep breath, wringing her hands in much the same way that her brother did when fraught with nerves. "They saw me, and they grabbed me and held me down with a knife to my throat."

Julia felt her hand fly unconsciously to her face, horrified. "What did you do?"

"What could I have done? I struggled as much as I could, but they were so much bigger than me, and then they started unbuckling their pants, and I started to think I should stop fighting it and just let them kill me. And then...they sort of...fell down."

"What happened?"

She was quiet for a moment, eyes cast downward. "Richard put a bullet through their heads."

For a moment, neither spoke as Julia considered the story she had just heard. Surely, he couldn't be blamed for doing what needed to be done to save his beloved sister, but how many boys could murder two men in cold blood? She couldn't imagine Tommy doing anything of the sort.

"All I'm trying to say," Emma began, "is that he has been capable of killing for quite some time. And I taught him that."

"You can't blame yourself. You were in trouble—"

"No, before that." Emma's dark eyes narrowed, focusing on an unseen point in her mind. "It was me. I taught him to shoot. I'm the reason he's such a good marksman. He never even wanted to kill anything before I showed him how."

Julia's heart sank for her friend's obvious guilt. "Emma, we still don't know what happened that night—"

"I think I have an idea."

"What's your idea?" Julia said, unsure if she wanted to know the answer to her question.

"When I first arrived in Atlantic City, I went straight to Gillian's address. The place was crawling with policemen, and one of them told me that...that they found twenty dead bodies there." Her eyes shot up, bearing into Julia's with an intensity that took her aback. "So you tell me: do you think it's just a coincidence that twenty men died in Richard's house, and he shows up at your's covered in someone else's blood?"

No, it didn't sound like a coincidence at all. Suddenly Julia's heart was racing, fearing the worst for her lost love. The only consolation was that Emma was here with her, her confidence a beacon in the darkness, and she hoped that Emma's single-minded determination to find Richard and bring him home was enough to get her through the long road ahead.

* * *

The second time Emma found herself at the Ritz, she did not have to remind herself to be confident. She knew that Nucky Thompson had been hiding something from her, and her determination to find out what that was carried her straight to his office, where the guards stepped aside with little more than a glance at her face.

A guard finally stopped her just outside the door. "I need to speak with Mr. Thompson," she said, the coolness in her voice frightening even herself.

"No visitors," the guard replied, gripping his rifle with white knuckles.

"I'm not a visitor," she said decisively as she pushed open the door.

Nucky was on the phone when she barged in, and he looked up at her wide-eyed but didn't dare curse at her for her intrusion, as he would his own men. Instead, he spoke softly into the telephone before replacing it on the cradle and turning his attention towards her, his feigned charm betrayed by the anger in his eyes. "Ms. Harrow. This is a surprise."

"I won't waste your time, Mr. Thompson, and I hope you won't waste mine." She stared into his sunken eyes. "I know you know something about my brother that you're not telling me."

"How do you know that?"

"Don't play coy with me, sir. I can tell when I'm being lied to, and you lied to me yesterday." She took a step towards him, her eyes bearing down on him. "Now, you're going to tell me where he is."

Nucky shifted his weight, cocking his head defiantly. "Or what?"

Without hesitation, she responded, "Or I'll kill you."

He took a step towards you. "Young lady, you have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Please, Mr. Thompson." She laughed mirthlessly. "You don't scare me."

"I wasn't talking about me."

She swallowed, taken aback by his comment.

Nucky reached out and placed a strong hand on her shoulder. "Has it occured to you that your brother might not want to be found?"

"I don't care what Richard wants." The words had escaped her before she'd had a chance to stop them, and she cursed the Harrow honesty for betraying her.

He cocked his eyebrow. The phone rang, and she saw the color drain from his face at the sound. "Are you done threatening me for the day? I need to take this."

She wasn't finished, but she knew she wouldn't be cracking him today. "I will see you again," she said darkly.

He smirked. "Is that another threat?"

"It's a promise." She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room.

* * *

Dinner was tense. The women sat in silence, wrapping their minds around the situation at hand. Afterward, with bellies full and dishes cleared, Emma offered to put Tommy to bed. "It's the least I can do," she said.

Tommy was a serious boy; even his play had an air of world-weariness beyond his six years. Emma wondered how he came to be in Richard's care, realizing that she had taken it for granted that Gillian was being honest in calling herself his mother. It seemed wrong for a boy so young to have lost both parents already, wherever they may be. It was good that he'd had Richard, and now Julia, who cared for him so completely. As if he were their own.

"Are you Richard's sister?" the boy asked, his voice innocent but his eyes earnest.

"Why yes, I am," she smiled. "How'd you guess?"

"You look like him."

"That's true. We're twins. Do you know what that means?"

Tommy shook his head.

"It means," she continued, tucking the blanket around his tiny body, "that we grew up together in our mama's tummy, and we were the best of friends from then on."

"Richard was once a little boy, like me?"

She nodded. "That's right. Do you want me to tell you a story about when Richard and I were kids?"

"Yes." Such a definitive response from such a small boy.

"Well, when we were about your age, we used to go fishing at this pond near our farm. We'd sit on this old pier and dangle our legs over the water, holding sticks with strings tied to them and little grubs on the end that we'd dug for in the dirt."

Tommy was wrapped with attention, his large eyes turned up towards her.

"One day," she continued, "Richard felt a tug on his line—a real yank. That fish was a beast! He had to stand up and pull with all of his might, and I stood up too—I was bigger than him, then—and I wrapped my arms around his waist and we pulled and pulled and pulled, and then...can you guess what happened next?"

"What happened?" His eyes were nearly as big as his face.

"That fish pulled both of us into the water!"

Tommy looked horrified. "But...but..."

"What is it?"

"What about his mask? Didn't it get all rusty?"

Her heart sank, at once charmed by the boy's naivety and saddened that her brother had transformed so completely into the masked stranger who had returned from the war in his place. "No, sweetheart," she said gently. "He didn't have his mask back then."

"Oh."

She bent down and kissed his forehead. "Time for bed," she said, running her thumb across his chipmunk cheek.

"Emma?"

"Yes?"

"I miss Richard," he said meekly.

"I know, Tommy. So do I."

* * *

She hadn't been sleeping; not really. She had been tossing and turning for several hours when she heard it, her mind reeling with the day's discoveries. She had been thrilled to find out that it was Richard with whom Julia had fallen in love, but his leaving her had only served to increase Emma's concern. If he couldn't accept the purity of Julia's love for him, then maybe he was too far gone, after all.

The sound was soft, just a car door opening and shutting—gently, as if by someone who didn't want to be noticed—but her senses were sharpened in the dark and she was out of bed and at the window in one swift motion. She strained her eyes, but the thick clouds in the night sky kept the scene in shadows. Then a rustle of grass, and a darkened flurry of movement. She was not about to let whatever it was get any closer to this family.

She stopped in the living room, where Paul's rifle sat perched above the mantle. It was loaded, which seemed unwise but fortunate in this moment, all the same. She peeked out the window; the shadow was distinctly human, and was now perched against the large tree in the yard. Clutching the gun in both hands, she took the back way out.

It took several minutes to work her way around the house, giving it a wide berth so as not to alert the intruder of her presence.

She crept towards him, her footsteps light as air. A break in the clouds cast a beam of silverly light upon the scene, enough to cause the rifle in the stranger's hand to glint in the moonlight.

She raised the gun, the suspect in her sights. "Drop it."

The figure tensed, then laid the gun carefully on the grass and raised his hands in surrender.

"Turn around."

Slowly, he turned toward her, and she gasped as a glimmer of moonlight hit the tin mask pressed to his cheek.


	6. Chapter 6

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

The bullets broke through the air at even intervals, the straight, sure shots of an experienced marksman. Richard lowered his gun and waited as his sister jogged to the target—an old soup can—and returned scrutinizing the pierced tin.

"It's passable—"

"Give it here." Richard grabbed the can from her hand and examined the three holes. He was aiming for dead-center on the gold medallion, but had hit it off to the top right edge instead; his other two shots had landed in the E and the second L.

"My turn." Emma pick up the gun and began loading it as Richard replaced the can on the dead stump several yards away.

She squared her legs, lifted the gun, and—

_Bang! Bang! Bang!_

She had that mischievous smirk on her face, the one that she always had when she knew she was surpassing him. Sure enough, the soup can now held a blossoming clover in the medallion's midpoint, three holes so near each other that they could have been a single shot.

"Told you," she snickered, "I'm better than you."

"I told you," he replied, a weary smile on his face, "that wasn't gonna change my mind."

She set the gun down carefully, always so reluctant to let it go, and took his hands. "Richard," she said softly, her low, honeyed voice music to his ears, as always. "You don't have to do this."

"Yes, I do. They need men out there, Sis."

"That doesn't mean you—"

"Why not me?" He dropped her hands and moved away from her. "I can shoot, I can follow orders. _'To serve honestly and faithfully against all enemies,' _that's what counts."

"I know, but—"

"I've made up my mind. I'm going."

"What are you trying to prove?" She took an indignant step towards him, dead leaves crunching underfoot, then paused, closing her eyes as she raised a halting hand between them. "No, don't answer that. I already know."

He crossed his arms, avoiding her gaze as he often did when he knew she was right.

"For what it's worth," she continued, "I love you whether you're brave or not. You can be as cowardly as you like and I won't love you any less."

He laughed, and she took it as her cue to close the gap between them, threading her thin but strong arms around his waist and relaxing when his enveloped her. "It's gonna be okay, Sis," he cooed in her ear.

"I know, but..." She rested her cheek against his shoulder. "I'm scared."

The leaves rustled around them as a sudden breeze broke through their little clearing. Her eyes began to well, and she buried her face in his neck to quelch them. He held her close to him, smoothing her hair with a reassuring hand.

"Scared that I won't come home?"

She squeezed his slim torso with arms grateful to hold him for as long as they could. "I'm scared," she said slowly, "that I won't recognize you when you do."

* * *

"Drop it."

That voice, like the richest, darkest wildflower honey. It had been years since he had heard that voice, and his heart fluttered as he drank it in. Last he'd heard it, the magic of it had seemingly melted away, but he could now feel the ghost of torrential emotions he had thought lost to the ages, welling up inside him now like a hurricane on the cold Atlantic. He did as he was told and set his trust weapon gently on the dew-dappled grass and raised his hands in surrender.

"Turn around," she said, and he felt a pang of apprehension—what if this was not the girl he so hoped that it was? What if he was surrendering to a stranger, and hereby sealing his own tragic fate, however deserved it may be? But it had to be her, the timbre of her voice unmistakable; and besides, his weapon was already out of reach, so he had little choice but to face his would-be captor with the bravery indicative of a soldier of his caliber.

If the sound of her voice had proven refreshing, it was nothing to the sight of her so unexpectedly near to him now. He was inclined not to look at her, but he couldn't help himself from running his eye over familiar curve of her jaw and the flash of defiance in her deep blue-grey-green stare. The intervening years had left her milky complexion lined with work and worry, but to him she would always be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—if only his heart would play along.

"Ri...Richard?" Her voice wavered, but the barrel of her gun remained fixed on his cheek, straight and true as ever.

"Emma." The rough gurgle sounded somehow foreign in her presence, a stark reminder of the deep schism between his old life and new. A flood of questions rushed through his mind—what was she doing in Atlantic City? how did she end up at Julia's?—but he could do little more than wring his hands and try desperately, fruitlessly, to keep from looking at her.

Her eyes quivered, still narrowed at his, and her knuckles shone white in the moonlight, clasped around the firearm. She could have been a child again, angry at him for refusing to play hooky from their chores or shoving a bully who dared to tease her dear twin. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to reach out to her, to bring them both back to the innocence of their youth, before the harsh realities of the modern world had wrenched them apart, but the feeling slipped away as quickly as it had taken hold.

His eye darted around the yard, searching hysterically for an escape route, but Emma's rifle was trained on him and she had always been a better shot.

"You can't run away this time, Richard." Her calm was disconcerting, only her wild eyes betraying her stillness. "Come inside."

He was powerless against her. He carefully lifted his gun, the faces of his kills plodding through his mind in a procession of eternal penance, and lead the way into the house.

* * *

Julia awoke to the slamming of the front door, and voices that made no effort to be hushed. The tiny clock, with it's mother-of-pearl face—a gift from her one-time suitor—showed 3:15. She rolled her eyes and rose, wrapping a robe around her thin shoulders to investigate the source of the commotion.

Her father hovered at the top of the stairs, holding a finger to his lips as he strained to listen.

"What am _I_ doing here? What the hell do you think I'm doing here!"

She almost didn't recognize Emma's voice through the biting enmity. Who could she be so angry with at this time of night? Julia rushed downstairs, her father following close behind, struggling to restrain her.

Another voice, low and muffled, emanated from the kitchen. "What does it matter?" Emma replied, exasperated. "I'm here, aren't I? I took a train halfway across the country to get to this God forsaken town, _for you._"

Julia rushed through the dining room, swinging the door wide. There he stood, shoulders hunched and eyes downcast.

"Richard?" She started towards him, but Paul gripped her arm and pulled her back to him.

"Give them a minute to get reacquainted," he said in low tones. She protested, but relented in a huff.

Emma stood opposite her brother, arms folded and fire in her eyes. She didn't acknowledge the Sagorsky's presence, her focus solely on the masked man before her. He twisted his fingers in his hands and avoided eye contact, a tic Julia recognized all too well.

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"You. Shouldn't be here."

"Like hell I shouldn't."

"I don't. Need you. I'm. Fine."

"You sure as hell don't look fine." This was an understatement. His eye was hollowed with what Julia assumed was lack of sleep. The color had drained from his face and he was more jittery than usual, quite a feat for someone as restless as he.

"I don't need. Your help. You should. Go back to Plover."

"And then what? Let you run wild out here, blowing people's brains out every chance you get? This is not why I taught you how to shoot—"

"I'm not. Running wild."

"Oh yes, silly me. The Artemis Club must've been an accident."

"I don't need. My sister. To rescue me."

"Well, someone needs to save you from yourself, and unfortunately for both of us I'm the only one up to the task."

He turned away from her, gripping the countertop with his head bowed.

She took a step towards him, pointing a slender finger at his breast. "I will not let you run from your problems, Richard. You want to be treated like a man, then you'd better damn well start acting like one."

"You. Don't know. What it's like."

"Bullshit. You don't know what it was like waiting for you, spending every waking moment worrying that you might never come home only to have you disappear when just when I'd finally gotten you back. You don't know what it's like back home, being the only one left to keep our family alive while you're galavanting along the boardwalk like some sort of vigilante. You don't know what it's like for me."

"It's. Not the same. You didn't see. What I saw. Over there."

"It _is_ the same! You are not the only one who got hurt in that war and you know it." She turned and hurried for the door, tears in her eyes. Julia and Paul stood back to let her pass. They all jumped when the front door slammed behind them.

Julia looked at Richard, searching for the right words. The thrill of seeing him again paled in comparison to her anger at losing him, in the first place. He offered her a weary glance and a shrug, then pushed past her to follow his sister out the door.

* * *

She could feel him behind her, though he kept a wide berth. She supposed he was purposely giving her space, ever accommodating her needs, though it was also likely that he just didn't know what to say. Whatever the reason, she pushed it from her mind; she was suddenly so angry with him that he was the last person in the world she wanted to see, yet she found an odd comfort in his closeness all the same. The great mystery of her adult life had been solved, and as much as she resented him, she couldn't shake the flood of relief that washed over her at every renewed realization that he was really here, alive and as well as she could have hoped for after years of nightmares and dread.

Before she knew it, her feet touched the wood of the boardwalk. The sky was a hazy indigo, the world awash in a deep blue glow. She stopped at the rail, the ocean roaring before her like a great beast beckoning her to its waiting jaws. How easy it would be to continue on into the waves, to let them swallow her whole like Richard's insecurities had swallowed him so long ago. But she was a bigger person than that.

"Is it true, then?" she said finally, her voice strong enough to carry over the din of the waves, but soft in the calm of her relentless love for him.

He approached the rail, mere inches from her, and gripped the wooden beam as if he might go flying off of the world at any given moment. She heard a strange hum escape his lips, as if he were at a loss for words, and suddenly his _otherness_ was grotesquely apparent.

"The Artemis Club," she continued. "Was that you?"

A long pause, and then, "Yes. It was me."

She felt lightheaded, the pit in her stomach extending to her weakened knees. "Twenty people," she breathed.

"Fifteen."

"Jesus, Richard, as if that makes it better."

"I needed. To rescue. Him."

"Tommy?"

"Hm."

"And was he your's to rescue?"

"It was. A whorehouse. No place for him."

"You didn't answer my question." She stared out into the inky blackness of the Atlantic, the horizon fading into the sky as if the ocean never ended and simply curved up around them, enveloping them in an underwater prison. "You enjoy killing people, don't you?"

"I'm. Good at it."

"I can believe that. Remember the night in the barn?" He had to remember; he couldn't possibly have forgotten, not when the memory visited her so often. They had always been connected.

"Of course. I remember." His growl still startled her. She missed his voice, higher than a man's should be but honey to her ears. She'd only had a month to adjust to this new, rough timbre before he'd disappeared. "You don't know. What it's like," he continued. "I do. What I have to do. To survive."

"Kill people?"

"Sometimes. I can't. Get a normal job. Not just. Because of my face. But because I'm. Different. The war. Made me different."

"When did you decide this? To become a criminal, I mean."

"When I got. To Chicago. I met a soldier. Tommy's father. He needed. A hitman."

"And that was you."

"Yes."

"So how did you end up all the way out here?"

"Jimmy. Brought me. He offered me. A job."

"As a hitman."

"As. Protection."

"Let me make sure I'm understanding this." She pushed herself from the rail and wrapped her thin arms around her torso, guarding against the morning chill. "You ran away to Chicago, then followed a stranger to Atlantic City because he offered you a job? You had a job back home."

"I couldn't. Stay in Plover."

"Why not? Because you couldn't fulfill your bloodlust, slaughtering chickens?"

"No." He looked at his feet. "Because. Of you."

She had known it before he had spoken it aloud. Of course it was because of her, but that didn't ease the shock of the confession. "What did I do?"

"You. Loved me. Unconditionally."

"So why couldn't you—"

"I can't. Love you back."

His response hit her like a ton of bricks. It had never occurred to her that he might not love her, that his feelings towards her could ever change. They had been each other's first loves since before they were born, and that was a bond that no war could break.

"I told you," he continued. "The war. Changed me." He stared off into the sea, his knuckles glowing on the weathered rail. "I wanted. To feel. Like I did before. But I couldn't."

The tears came before she could stop them, but she was not about to succumb to their tortuous grasp. "I still don't understand."

"You. Don't have to." He kept his gaze on the hazy horizon. "Just know that. I'm not. The same boy. I was before."

"I do know that, but—"

"Then go. Back to Plover. And leave me be."

"You know I can't do that, Richard." She moved towards him, shoulder to shoulder. "I've spent the last three years wondering what had become of you, if you were even alive. I am not about to let you go again so soon."

"This is. No place for you."

_But it is_, she longed to say. _It's exactly the right place for me._ The plan had begun to form itself in her mind long before she had set eyes on her brother again. In a way, it was the natural application of her talents, far more appropriate than a life of Midwestern farm work. "No," she said, "it's no place for you. It's exactly the kind of place for me."

"Sis—"

His protests did little to deter her; she turned on her heel and began the trek back to the Sagorsky's. If he refused to return home, then she would have no choice in the matter. She would have to take his place.


	7. Chapter 7

Breakfast the next morning was a tense affair. Julia could barely look at the girl sitting opposite her father, in her Richard's chair. Last night's accusations rang in her ears, emotions laid bare on the same kitchen floor on which she had first felt the tingle of a connection between herself and the man who had been so dismissive of them all just hours previously. The anger burned in her chest, a massive hydra writhing within her, threatening to lash out at unsuspecting passers by—in this case, Emma.

"Where did you go last night?" She leaned over her guest's glass, tilting the pitcher mechanically and letting milk stream out over the porcelain spout.

"The boardwalk," Emma sighed, holding the glass steady.

"Did Richard join you?"

"I think you know the answer to that." The iciness of her words matched Julia's own, and the host's fumbled the pitcher in her hands, sloshing milk up the sides of the glass and over Emma's fingers. They both pulled away quickly.

"Ladies, ladies," Paul admonished, taking a seat as Tommy skipped to his. "Easy, now."

Julia took a deep breath and immediately began scooping up spilt milk with her apron. "I'm sorry, Emma," she said, "I just—"

"It's okay." Emma steadied Julia's hand and let her napkin take over the tidying up. Julia hurried into the kitchen to dispose of the soiled cloth around her waste. When she returned, the others had begun digging into their breakfasts.

"So," Paul began, a strip of bacon waving in his hand, "Did you have a nice family reunion last night? Sounded like a helluva time."

"Dad—"

"I apologise," Emma interrupted, "for last night, Paul. I got carried away. We shouldn't have imposed upon you with our family quarrels like that."

"Hey, we all got our troubles. But just remember," he leaned in, his voice lowering, "he seen things over there that you know nothin' about."

"With all due respect, sir," Emma said, her steely grey eyes meeting his, "there are things I've seen that you know nothing about, either." Paul opened his mouth to speak and Emma raised a quieting hand. "Please do not think that I am not grateful for the sacrifices that men like you have made for me and for this country, but I won't stand by and watch Richard wallow in his martyrdom, no matter how justified you might think that to be. Now, if you'll excuse me—" She pushed her chair back with a skid and stood from the table, walking breathlessly from the room.

Julia's eyes met her father's.

"What?" Paul said, stuffing the bacon into his mouth.

"Did you have to do that?"

"A man can't speak my mind in his own house?"

"I just can't believe this is the same man who told me not to butt in last night."

"I said to let them get reacquainted." He scooped a large bite of eggs onto his fork. "They had their chance, and now it's my turn."

"Well," Julia began, shaking her father's boorishness from her mind as she was so often forced to do, "What do you suppose will happen now?"

"You mean, do I think Harrow's gonna come back?" He chewed his bite and swallowed, his eyes unfocused as he considered. "I don't know. But I'll tell you one thing: there's a lot about them twins that we don't know. Just think about it." He returned to his plate, leaving Julia to stare at hers and do exactly as he had instructed.

* * *

"You...want to work for me?"

Emma lifted her chin defiantly, squaring her shoulders in a model of self confidence.

He snorted skeptically. "Forgive me for thinking you might not be the best man for the job."

Subtle, he wasn't. "Mr. Thompson, I apologize if this comes off as crude, but you shoot with your finger, not your penis."

She could tell he was scandalized by her comment, which was exactly where she wanted him. "Be that as it may," he intoned through clenched teeth, charging past her impropriety, "didn't you threaten to kill me yesterday?"

"Your point?"

"My point is, why the fuck would I trust you?"

A dozen comebacks raced through her head, but she calmly said, "Who said anything about trust? This is business."

He stepped towards her, his thin frame towering over her as she looked up from her chair. "Why do you think I would even consider hiring you? What can you do for me?"

She stood. "May I borrow your pistol?"

He gave her a look of supreme reticence.

"I promise not to shoot you," she said, throwing her hand up in facetious oath.

Finally, he pulled a shiny gun from his holster and held it out to her. The handle was mother-of-pearl, the barrels gleaming. She took it in hand and weighed it ever so briefly before whipping her arm straight and sending three rapid shots tearing through the air towards a bust on the far side of the room.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Nucky cried, hurrying to the statue and examining it closely. He quieted at the sight of the small black hole through the creamy marble just under the bust's left eye, so close together that they could have been a single shot.

"Still don't think you can put me to good use?" she said, only the slightest hint of mocking in her voice.

"Give me my gun back." She handed it too him, reluctant to relinquish such a beautiful piece of machinery. "Okay, I'll give you a shot—no pun intended. What are your terms?"

"IThe first is that you pay me a proper wage, enough for room and board, starting immediately."

"I think I can arrange that. What's else?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You let my brother go."

Nucky guffawed. "What makes you think it's up to me?"

"It may not be, but he'll never leave willingly as long as he feels that he has a purpose here. Right now, I have reason to believe that you are that purpose. Let him go."

Nucky took a challenging step towards her, his eyes darkening as his true nature began to break through his long-cultivated veneer of civility. "I want to be clear, Ms. Harrow. Your brother is valuable to me. If this backfires—"

"It won't." The coolness in her voice disturbed her, but she didn't dare let that show. Not when Nucky was playing right into her hands.

* * *

Dusk had fallen on the boardwalk when Emma emerged from the Ritz's gilded doors. The figure that stepped out of the shadows gave her a fright until the mask came into view. "What are you doing here?" she uttered, infuriated.

"I. Followed you."

"You had no right to do that." She pushed past him and stalked off down the boardwalk. He hurried after her.

"It's. No different. From you. Coming here. To find me."

Her step faltered as she realized he had a point, but she quickly resumed her pace. "Does this mean you're ready to talk?"

"I told you. Last night."

"Last night didn't count. We were both talking out of our asses." She stopped and turned towards him. "Will you come to the Sagorsky's for dinner tonight?"

"I can't. Do that."

"But you can stand in her yard all night? Whatever you say." She turned away and continued stalking down the boardwalk, her brother struggling to catch up.

"We can go. To my place."

She stopped in her tracks, head cocked ever so slightly as she considered his proposal. "All right," she said, facing him. "Lead the way."

* * *

They neared a large, shabby wooden house on the far end of the boardwalk. A sign out front read "O'Brien's" in faded Victorian lettering. "It's. Not much," he said, aware of how clearly the residence reflected on his current state.

"I didn't say a word."

As soon as they stepped inside, they could hear the clinks and clangs of supper being prepared in the kitchen. Richard twisted his hat in his hands and led the way towards the delectable smells wafting from the their left.

A small, plump woman with a shock of grey-streaked red hair knotted at the nape of her neck busied herself over the stove, tasting this and tossing seasoning into that.

Richard cleared his throat. "Hello. Mrs. O'Brien," he said.

"Good evening, Mr. Harrow," she said cheerily. Her eyes fell on Emma. "And who is this vision of loveliness?"

"This is. My sister. Emma."

"Pleased to meet you, Mrs. O'Brien." Emma extended her hand to the little Irishwoman, who took it eagerly.

"Charmed, dearie. Will you both be staying for dinner?"

"No—" Richard started, but Emma interrupted him.

"Actually, my brother and I have some catching up to do. Would it be a terrible bother for us to take some plates up to his room?"

"Well," she said, considering the request, "I normally don't allow my boys to have female guests in their rooms, but Mr. Harrow has never been a bother, and you are his sister…I suppose we can make an exception. Just this once!" She retrieved two plates from a high cabinet, straining on her tiptoes to reach, and began loading them with savory treats. She hummed a jaunty tune throughout, and Emma and Richard stole an amused glance at each other as she worked.

Finally, she thrust a plate into each of their hands. "And there's plenty more where that came from," she said, shooing them out of the kitchen to leave her to her work.

* * *

His room was modest, its limited expanse lit easily by a single dim lamp. She wondered how he fit his long limbs on the tiny bed.

"You can. Have the chair."

She took a seat, placing her plate on her lap. He sat on the bed, his plate beside him. Though she tucked into her meal hungrily, he merely looked on bashfully.

"Aren't you gonna eat?" she asked through a mouthful of food. He looked away, his cheek flushing scarlet. "Oh come now, Richard. Don't tell me you're embarrassed to eat in front of me."

"It will. Put you off. Your meal."

"You know I've seen worse. Eat."

His throat clicked as he relented, and he raised his hands to his ears to peel the mask from his face.

"I prefer you without the mask, you know," she said, as if confiding a deep secret. "I've never liked that thing."

"It's better. Than the alternative."

"We can agree to disagree on that."

He smirked and took a bite. As he chewed, his hand flew up to his withered left cheek to block the food's escape from the gaping hole where the left side of his mouth should have been. The ordeal half broke her heart, but she was quickly overwhelmed by a swell of love for her dear, broken brother.

"What you said last night," she said slowly. "About not being able to…to love me back. Did you mean that?"

Silence.

"Richard?"

"I don't know." He looked at the floor, head hung in shame.

She placed her plate on the desk and tentatively stood, moving his plate to the nightstand and taking a seat beside him. She noticed a spot of drool on his lip and dabbed it away with her handkerchief. "Do you remember that day," she began with a giggle, slipping her hand into his, "when I dared you that you couldn't ride Bessie like a pony, and you climbed on top of her to prove me wrong—"

"And then. You spooked her. And we went flying. Around the yard." They broke into fits of laughter.

"And then you steered her towards me...and she came chasing after me!"

"It wasn't. On purpose!"

"Like hell, it wasn't!" She pushed his shoulder playfully, and he pushed her back until she fell back on the mattress, chest heaving in a stream of guffaws; he landed beside her with a bounce. Soon, the laughter died down, and they were left side by side, staring up at the same grey spot on the ceiling as their breathing calmed. "Do you miss it?" she asked.

"Every. Day."

"But you won't come back."

"It's. Not that simple."

She turned towards him, the undamaged half of his face all that she could see. She leaned in and pressed a tender kiss on his cheek, holding her face to his as she willed an ocean of conflicting emotions into his consciousness while her thumb brushed the scarred cheek just beyond her field of vision. He turned his face towards hers and stared into her eyes, the part of him that struck terror into the hearts of so many inescapable in their closeness. But Emma did not pull away; she leaned in and kissed his lips, eyes shut tight to the reality bearing down upon them.

After a moment too long, as he began to feel the familiar stirrings of desire blossoming deep within him, he pushed her away. "I can't," he growled softly. He kissed her forehead sweetly, rubbing her silky cheeks with his fingertips.

She bit her lip and sat up. "I have to go. I don't want keep the Sagroskys waiting." She stood and began to gather her things, then paused. "May I borrow your coat? Just for tonight. It was getting a bit chilly earlier, and I have quite a walk ahead of me."

"Let me. Drive you."

"No," she said quickly, opening the closet so that the door blocked her from view. "I'd prefer to be alone for a while." She pulled his coat from behind the door and clutched it to her chest. "I'll talk to you tomorrow?"

He nodded, and she was gone.

* * *

The night was indeed unseasonably cool, but not nearly cool enough warrant a midwestern farm girl to needing a winter coat. Richard had waited until he had spied her emerging from his boarding house, then scrambled after her. He followed his sister several paces behind, keeping his eye trained on her every movement. She was nervous; that much he could tell from the way her shoulders hunched instinctively together, but her gait was strong and self-assured. She held one hand awkwardly against her side, giving her steps an odd, unbalanced rhythm. He narrowed his eyes and followed on.

Her pace didn't slow until she was well away from the boardwalk, approaching a derelict old house with lights blazing from the basement. She paused, then began circling the perimeter, her eyes scanning the house's facade methodically. He crept after her, ducking into the shadows lest she catch him lurking behind her.

Suddenly, she looked up, her eyes following the crunch of a broken twig. He threw himself against a tree under whose merciful cover he had been hiding, shutting his eye and sucking in his breath. Finally, feeling that she had looked away, he stole a peek around the trunk; Emma had disappeared. He stepped out from behind the tree, whipping his head around in pursuit of his lost target.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

The speaker had the nasally voice of a pubescent teenager. Richard threw his arms up instinctively in surrender, his mind racing through each possible escape route and ever aware that his position was amusingly familiar. He turned slowly, enough not to startle his captor but to see the muzzle of the man's gun pointed between his eyes. "Hey," the man said, his face awash with recognition, "I know you! You're that half-faced freak who killed Rosetti and his guys! Holy shit, am I gonna be the big man in town when I shoot your sorry ass—"

"Let him go." Emma had appeared behind his assailant, Richard's own rifle clutched high in her arms. She stood stock-still, calm and defiant, her voice steady, commanding. The effect was nothing short of spectacular.

The man merely laughed. "What's this?" he asked. "You got your girlfriend protecting you?"

"I'll give you five seconds to drop your weapon and hand him over to me."

The man continued to guffaw, his gun never leaving Richard's face.

"Five..."

He rolled his eyes. "We really gonna do this, princess?"

"Four..."

"Come on, sweet cheeks—"

"Three..."

He turned, his gun still pointed at her brother. "How's about you and me go somewhere private and—"

"Two…"

"Hey—"

"One."

_BANG._


	8. Chapter 8

"...Emma?" Richard's eye quivered as his gaze flitted back and forth between his sister and the limp body that lay crumpled at his feet.

"Leave it." She pulled her gun upright and turned towards the building. "Wait for me at the front door. _Do not_ make a sound."

Before he could say another word, she had stalked off towards the back door.

* * *

"Put the gun down."

Richard strode forward into the boy's bedroom with the disciplined gait of an advancing soldier, his rifle held high against his chin. His target aimed a pistol straight down at the head of the tiny, terrified figure that he held in place with his free hand.

"You think I give a _fuck_?" the man seethed, the fear in his eyes palpable. Wide eyed, he pleaded, "put it down."

He glanced at the little boy before him, who stared quizzically into the eye of his beloved, bloodstained hero. Could he possibly realize what was at stake?

_"Put it down!"_ his assailant cried.

Fourteen men lay strewn upon the opulent floors of the old mansion, all for this singular reason—to rescue an innocent from a war in which he had no place—and suddenly his efforts seemed to be coming to a fruitless head. Every fiber of Richard's being burned in anger at the sight of the gun pointed down at the scared child, this poor soul that held in his eyes all of the love and admiration that Richard felt for those he had lost in endless battles. All that mattered in the world was his well-being.

He nodded once, his gaze still on the boy, and pointed his rifle to the ceiling. Another nod and he was lowering it to the floor, bending slowly at the knees to kneel before his captor. He stared up at him, his eye steady, his back straight. The man glowered down at him, one eyebrow cocked as he tightened his grip on the boy's shirt.

Richard extended his free hand to steady himself, open-palmed, pacifying. "Tommy," he growled. "Close your eyes."

Ever obedient—he really was such a good boy—Tommy did as he was told. Suddenly, Richard swung the barrel upward and sent a single bullet through the man's unsuspecting cheek.

As his lifeless foe crumpled to the floor, Tommy ran towards Richard's waiting arms, letting his fear seep through his grateful embrace. Richard knew in that moment that he would never let the boy feel such fear again.

* * *

Several minutes had passed before she emerged, clutching his rifle in one hand and a suitcase in the other. He opened his mouth to speak, but she charged past him.

"Walk," she commanded. He couldn't help but follow.

They marched in silence for ages before he opened his mouth again.

"Tell me. What happened."

"No." She walked a few paces in front of him, the weight of the suitcase difficult to gauge in her able grasp.

"Tell me."

She paused, her face turned towards the sky in exasperation. "Give me one good reason."

His throat clicked in the absence of a valid argument. She laughed mirthlessly, shook her head, and walked on.

"Doesn't feel good to be kept in the dark, now does it?"

"You shouldn't. Be doing this."

"Doing what, exactly?" She turned on her heels to face him.

"Whatever. This is."

"But you don't even know what this is."

They had reached the Sagorsky's, and the orange glow of the street lamp illuminated the exhaustion on her face. He couldn't help but look away.

"Will you come in?"

He shook his head. He couldn't face his would-be family, not with tonight's revelations careening through his mind.

"Well then," she said, thrusting the suitcase forward, "make yourself useful and give this to Nucky Thompson. He'll be expecting you."

He took the case in hand, hating himself for his inability to voice the barrage of questions that fought for release in his mind, but the screen door was swinging behind her by the time he had even looked up.

* * *

He lifted the boy, nearly weightless in his arms, and carried him into the hall. He didn't cry—in all the time he'd known him, Tommy never had been an inconsolable child, despite Gillian's claims. He merely clutched Richard's neck in his tiny, dimpled hands, trembling from head to foot.

A muffled whimpering drew Richard's attention to a room he hadn't checked en route to Tommy's. Drawing a pistol from its holster, he peered into the room.

Gillian lay on the four poster, the color drained from her cheeks, her legs tucked awkwardly against her chest and her body seemingly lifeless save for the shuddering breaths that raised and lowered her breast in a pained staccato.

"Keep your eyes closed," Richard breathed in Tommy's ear. He gently lowered the boy to the floor and entered the room.

Her lovely eyes fluttered open as he bent over her. "James?" she cooed.

"It's. Me." He worked an arm under her back and another beneath her legs, lifting her like a rag doll.

"I knew you would come back, baby," she murmured. "I missed you so. You gave me...such a scare."

He was gentle, ever so gentle, carrying her with careful, methodical steps from the room. In the quiet of the hall, the long persian rug sprinkled with blood and bodies, he weighed his options. Tommy stood with his back to him, little fists pressed to his closed eyes. He couldn't possibly carry the boy _and_ his grandmother to safety, and doubted the woman would be welcomed with open arms at his intended destination, even if he could. But, no matter her actions over the previous days, he couldn't help the flood of guilt that met his decision.

He lowered her to the floor, propping her delicately against the papered wall. Her long-dormant innocence shining through as she looked up at him with unseeing eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. A tender kiss he planted on her forehead, then smoothed the blood away with his thumb.

_She'll be found soon_, he assured himself as he lifted the child once again and made his way from the blood-soaked grounds. _She will be all right._

Even as the words entered his consciousness, he doubted their sincerity.

* * *

"Are you awake?" The door creaked softly as Julia leaned in.

"How'd you guess?" Emma pulled her knees up to make room on the small bed for her friend, who took an exhausted seat.

"I just wanted to…apologize. For earlier."

"Please," Emma sighed, "it's not necessary. We were both a bit edgy today. Put it behind us?"

Julia nodded with a bashful smile. "Did you see him today?"

"For once," Emma groaned, "I do not want to talk about my brother." She crossed her arms behind her head and leaned back against the wall, stretching her shoulders as she felt the day catching up with her bones. "Tell me something."

"Shoot," Julia shrugged.

"If you could go anywhere—anywhere in the world—where would you go?"

The petite blonde sighed, her chin tilting toward the ceiling. "It sounds silly, but I've always dreamed of going to Paris."

"What's so silly about that?"

Julia rolled her eyes. "Me? In _Paris?_ I'm not nearly fashionable enough."

"Does that matter?"

"Think of all the great writers, debating on the left bank. Can you imagine?"

"Where did you hear that?"

She blushed, and leaned forward. "Okay," she said, lowering her voice, "you can't tell anyone, but I…I've always wanted to be a writer."

"Really?" This news surprised Emma somehow, and she grasped her friend's hand excitedly. "Can I read something you've written?"

"Oh no, I couldn't possibly—I'm not very good."

"Shouldn't I be the judge of that?"

"They're mostly fairy stories."

"I love fairy stories."

"Yes, but—" Julia stood, pacing the room with her arms crossed, "I'm an adult. I should be writing something real; something true."

"I don't know," Emma said, wistfully, "Seems to me like you should write whatever you like."

"What about you?"

"I'm no writer," Emma laughed.

"No—" Julia returned to the bed. "Where would you go?"

"It's enough to me that I made it out of Plover at all, but…" She thought for a moment, considering the possibility. What if it had been her who had sailed off across the sea, her eyes that had soaked in the sights of foreign lands, her mind bursting with memories she could barely fathom from the seclusion of the old farmhouse? It felt perfectly natural to imagine herself on safari on the African plains, felling big game with her musket. She could feel the sting of wintry air as she scaled the Alps, smell jasmine of the Far East. "I suppose I wouldn't go anywhere," she said finally. "I would just keep traveling around."

"That's cheating," Julia giggled, pushing her friend on the shoulder.

Emma caught her hand as she pulled away and held it in hers. "Would you come with me?"

"Where?"

"Anywhere. I shouldn't be here, Julia. I don't belong here anymore than you do."

"What about your farm?"

"I don't know if I belong there, either." It was a truth she had kept from herself for a lifetime, suppressed by loyalty and responsibility. But somewhere along the way she had become the captain of a sinking vessel, barely keeping her head above water as the demands of the farm threatened to overwhelm her with each passing season; Richard had merely been her excuse to abandon ship. "Let's face it," she said, "neither one of us was given a fair shake in this world. Why should we have to put our hopes and dreams aside? We should be free while we're young, not taking care of grown men or ghosts from our pasts."

Julia looked out at the darkened window. "But Dad, and Tommy. They need me."

Her laugh was downtrodden. "I imagined that's what you'd say." They looked at each other, eyes dancing in the dim lamp light. Emma rubbed the smooth skin of Julia's hand with her thumb, an strange feeling overcoming her. They were so close, suddenly, mere inches from each other.

It was Julia who pulled away. "I should let you sleep," she said quickly, smoothing her dressing gown as she made for the door. "Goodnight, Emma." She closed the door softly, with a weary smile.

"Goodnight, Julia."

* * *

Sleep evaded him that night, as usual. His mind reeled with questions, cogs in a restless machine whose purpose he couldn't quite grasp. He toyed with the idea of returning to his post on the Sagorsky's lawn, but thought better of it. The last thing he needed was another confrontation with his sister, while his mind still struggled to wrap itself around the new image of her that had faced him tonight. The woman who had stood before him, who had rescued him with a single shot, bore none of his sister's gentleness but had intend radiated confidence and strength. It was the Emma of target practice and hunting trips, the Emma who could slaughter a pig without a flinch or second thought, the Emma who would have been a fine substitute for him in the war. Tonight she had proven once and for all what their father had made abundantly clear until his dying day—that Emma was the superior Harrow twin.

But had he not made a life for himself here, and a reputation as a cold and calculating killer? It was the only persona that didn't fill him with embarrassment to have to face the world at large. Their fear he relished; their pity, he abhorred. Here, he was Richard Harrow, the Tin Woodsman. How dare Emma take this away from him?

The realization struck him like a shot to the chest, and he was dressing before he had fully registered rising from the bed. The walk was short and oddly familiar, given that he had never traveled to this destination before. It felt like a pilgrimage, like destiny ushering him forward.

He entered through a side door and slipped down darkened hallways, effortlessly passing a distracted orderly. He found her in the largest room, at the end of the hall, tucked into the last bed. Her angelic face was bathed in moonlight, the glow of sleep upon her.

The bed creaked as he sat, and her eyes fluttered open. "You came," she cooed through a blossoming smile. "I knew you would."

"Hello. Gillian." She had slipped her hand into his almost immediately, and he cupped her tiny palm protectively. "How are. You feeling?" he whispered.

"Did you bring me a treat?"

Richard shook his head. "I'm sorry." It was an apology for the myriad ways he had failed her in his duties, but he knew she would not take it as such.

She sighed heavily and turned her gaze to the window. "Can I see him yet?"

"Who?"

"Who? Silly…why, James, of course. I just want to hold him for a little while. I promise, I'll be gentle."

Richard smoothed her hand, a bolt of sadness piercing his heart. "I'll. See what I. Can do."

"Will you hold me? Only, it's so lonely in here, and I get scared at night, in the dark."

A gentle hum escaped his throat as he nodded slowly, standing to cross around to the other side of the bed. He climbed in with nary a sound, wrapping his arms around her thin frame as gently as possible. He pulled the rose-hued ringlets from her neck and planted a kiss in their wake. He could feel the tremors of soundless, wrenching sobs seize her, and he held her close until sleep calmed her once more.


	9. Chapter 9

Two o'clock clicked on to three, a relentless pounding in her ears, an ever-present reminder of her myriad failings. Sleep had never come easily to Emma, but with the night's events drowning her like this...

She swung her legs over the edge of the bed, possessed by the easy, comforting pull of instinct, and groped in the darkness for her brother's coat. She had meant to give it back to him, now that her secret need not be concealed, but the thought had slipped her mind as details were wont to do in moments of stress. The sight of it there, bunched and bent over the chair but somehow as steadfast as its owner, only served to reinforce her unconscious decision.

The seaside cast a salty chill over the boardwalk, a dreamy mist blanketing the dimmed lights and well-trodden beams. Emma wondered, with each creaking step, if one could ever tire of this place, and how she could possibly have lived her whole life up to this point with the sea so far away. With the spray of the ocean hanging in the air, she drank in the delicious freedom of this moment, the future underfoot and the horizon hidden in the hazy darkness like a mystery, a hint at an obscured reality that she need not burden herself with in this wonderful moment. She breathed it in and walked on.

The stranger's face swam into her mind, his leering smile and easygoing confidence in his own infallibility a slap in the face even hours after his demise. Pulling the trigger had been easy; it was her indifference to the act that scared her so.

Richard's boarding house stood sentry in the night, dark, silent, and still. She slipped through the front door and up to his tiny room without a sound, her whole body aching to be held by those strong, doting arms that had kept the monsters at bay for the first twenty years of her life before retreating to blinds of France and throwing her to the wolves of loneliness. She could forgive his myriad transgressions if only for the promise that he would never let her go again.

But the room was empty. Her shoulders slumped at the sight of the crumpled sheets and the ghost of his shape pressed into the thin mattress. Disappointment swelled within her, the familiar pang of guilt and loneliness that his absence so often inspired within her. She folded his coat over the chair and climbed onto the still-warm bed, breathing in his faint scent—no matter how far he traveled, he still smelled of home—and waited for the suffocating helplessness to ebb.

* * *

The slamming of her dresser drawers rattled the windows of the old farmhouse, almost drowning her mother's shouted protestations. Almost.

"You can't do this!" Ma cried, but the suitcase sat open-mouthed on the tiny bed, swallowing the shirts and pants and dresses she flung into it.

He had left before sunrise, without a last goodbye and, though she had been steeling herself for weeks for his departure, the reality of it had been a blow to the heart. She found herself waking in the dead of night, fingers curling around sweat-soaked bedsheets, gasping for air, unable to breathe without him by her side. She would creep into his room, into his bed, so long a beacon of unerring love in a weary world, but without him it was nothing but faded linens and the mocking ghost of his scent. Every waking moment, she was starkly aware of the danger he would soon face; every waking moment in this house was a reminder that he was gone.

"You hear me?" Ma was in her doorway, brandishing a rolling pin with eyes filled with fire. "You can't just waltz over to the trenches."

"They need nurses at the front, Ma."

"You ain't no nurse."

"Then they can train me." She shut the suitcase, pinning scraps of fabric in its jaws, and forced her way past her mother.

"You can't just leave! Not while Pa's sick!"

Emma stopped cold, stung by the harsh slap of reality. "He'll get better."

"Like the Dechamps boy? Or Jim Powell? There's death in this town, and it ain't leaving with you."

Eyes shut tight, she willed the truth away to no avail. Pa was sick, to be sure, and this fever was like nothing she had ever encountered, picking good farm folk off with alarming efficiency and decimating her once-mighty father to a shell of his former self. Richard's departure had hurt her enough; she had no intention of lingering to watch her father's.

"I can't stay here," she muttered, eyes welling painfully. She grasped the suitcase, white-knuckled, and marched to the front door.

She had barely pulled it open before her mother slammed it shut. "If you think you're gonna find Richard over there, you're crazy."

Emma's eyes bore into her mother's, seething. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"That's it, isn't it? That's why you're going."

"Ma—"

"You let him live his life, girl! You let him be! What he's doing is brave and decent and I won't have you filling his brain with…with…" Ma took a step back, swaying slightly in place.

Emma took advantage of her window of opportunity and swung the door open.

"Emma!" Ma cried behind her as the girl stalked off down the dirt path towards the road.

"It's too late, Ma!"

"You'll leave this farm over my dead body!"

"I said," Emma cried, exasperated, turning on her heel to face the house, "it's too—Ma?"

Her mother was sprawled on the porched, legs bent awkwardly beside her. Emma threw the suitcase to the wayside as she rushed to her aide. Tantalizing glimpses of escape slipped through her fingers as she cradled her mother's head in her lap, stroking her silvery hair and muttering her name in worried whispers.

It was several days before she remembered that her suitcase still lay there, nestled in the grass, and by then the Harrow elders were gone.

* * *

A thin stream of sunlight coaxed Richard awake, and it took him several moments to place his surroundings. The metal table, the white linens—suddenly he was back in the army hospital, reaching tentatively for his bandage face before the blinding pain rushed him back into unconsciousness. But the pain he faced now was not physical, not really. And the soft skin of the woman in his arms was a world away from the front lines.

He held her tighter, his trousers tightening around his erection as it pressed against Gillian's thigh. He breathed in her scent, the wildflower musk of her hair, and his mind swam with memories he would never breathe a word of to another living soul. And then he realized where they were, and the hour, and he sprung from the bed like a shot.

She stirred and rolled over to face him. "Where do you think you're going?" she cooed.

"I. Lost track of time."

"No, please." She reached for his hand, her skin like fresh cream in the soft morning light. "Please don't leave me."

"I have to."

"Please, James—"

His heart sank as he avoided her yearning, bloodshot stare. "I'm. Not Jimmy," he said as he pulled his hand from hers and let his long legs carry him away.

"Bring Tommy in to say goodnight before you put him to bed!" she called after him. He shut his eye tight and walked on.

* * *

Sleep had evaded Julia that night, as usual. Every time she closed her eyes, it was his face that swam into her mind—covered in blood, avoiding her questioning gaze. To call the memory frightening would be an understatement for the ages, but somehow she was left longing for him all the more. She refused to reconcile the unfolding truths about him with the kind, sensitive man she had come to know so well. Her Richard wasn't capable of such horrors.

And then there was Emma, to whom she had felt such an immediate connection before knowing for sure just who she was. Emma, who carried herself with so much confidence and strength, who didn't need the shield of humor that Julia kept raised at all times. Emma, who looked so very much like her brother, but whole, undamaged (at least on the surface). Emma, who suddenly felt so very, very far away from her. Dad was right: there was an awful lot about the Harrow family that remained shrouded in mystery, and it filled their already tense home with unease.

Tommy was fast asleep when she crept into Freddie's room. All around him were ghostly reminders of the child who was here before; Dad was far from the only one haunted by his absence. In the semi-darkness of dawn, his eyes shut tight and tiny chest rising and falling ever so slowly, he could have been her brother's double. Julia was suddenly propelled back to a fading memory, of waking in the night as a girl and tiptoeing in here on a whim to find her mother, body frail from the illness that would take her from them shortly thereafter, sitting in this very chair and watching her tiny boy. She remembered so little about her mother, but this scene was somehow vivid in her mind: the moonlight had cast a halo on her rose-gold curls as she held a slender finger to her lips, and Julia had crawled onto her waiting lap, her embrace the warmest blanket in the world, and watched with her as Freddie slept soundly, blissfully unaware that they were so near to him, and that such a scene would soon slip through their tiny fingers forever.

She didn't notice Paul tiptoe into the room, but she felt his presence before he placed a tender hand on her shoulder. "Looks familiar, doesn't it?" he said softly.

"What does?"

"All this. You look just like her."

Julia grasped her father's hand. "Do you miss her."

"Every fucking day."

"But not as much as you miss Fred."

"I had a lot longer to get used to your mother being gone." He squeezed her shoulder protectively as they both stared at the slumbering child, the stillness between them deafening.

"What are we gonna do with him?" Julia breathed, half to herself.

"What, we can't let the kid sleep?"

"That's not what I meant, Dad."

Paul shrugged and moved to the dresser, where Freddie's toy soldiers were arranged just as he left them—Tommy was always careful to replace them, in the event of their owner's return. "Boy his age should be in school. I can teach him to throw a ball around—maybe he'll get a scholarship."

"Dad!"

"What? You asked the question."

"You can't start planning his life. He's not ours!" She stood, her body lurching into concerned paces, the chair rocking wildly on its curved feet in her wake.

"I got news for you, sweetheart—he ain't no one else's, either."

"He has his grandma."

"Sure has a funny way of showing she cares. Look," he said, taking a placating step towards her, "Harrow ain't coming back for him. His grandma ain't coming back for him. We're all he's got. Might as well make the most of it."

"It's not right, Dad."

"Life ain't right. You think it's right that Freddie died? This is our second chance."

Julia brushed his hand away. "He's a little boy, Dad. Not a second chance." She breezed past him towards the door, realizing with a heavy heart that breakfast wouldn't make itself.

"Where'd your friend head off to last night?"

She stopped cold. "Emma?"

"Yeah. She snuck out in the middle of the night." He looked at her, brow cocked at her confusion. "What? You think you're the only one who can't sleep?"

"She's a grown woman. It's none of our business where she goes."

"Yeah, yeah, it's a free country and all that noise. Who d'you think fought to keep it that way?"

Julia rolled her eyes. "Don't you think it's a bit early to start in on your tirades?"

"How long's she gonna stay here, huh?" He followed her to the landing, raising his voice. "She ain't our kind, you know."

She paused halfway down the stairs and looked back at him with narrowed eyes. "I trust her."

"Like you trusted half-moon?"

Through clenched teeth, she said, "Why don't you just have another drink, Dad?" and left him standing defiantly at the top of the stairs.

* * *

The sight of her, curled up in his tiny bed with the sheets bunched in her fists, was at once startling and deeply comforting. Richard took a seat gingerly astride his sister, in the little hole where her knees and torso looped around him, and stroked her hair with all of the love that he was supposed to feel for her.

He couldn't bring himself to wake her from the peace of her labored sleep, remembering with a melancholy smile all the nights of their youth when only his arms could quiet her ever-active mind. In the quiet of the morning, they were children once again, relaxing only in each other's warm embrace. She felt a world away from him, just then.

He grabbed the valise and left without a sound.

The Ritz was just beginning to buzz with activity when he reached the ornate doors. He hadn't given a thought to the hour, and decided he would wait patiently for Nucky to wake, however long that might be. But the reluctant gangster was up and pouring himself a drink when Richard reached his suite.

"Mr. Harrow," he said, bright but not cheerful. "I was expecting your sister."

"She told me. To bring you this." He held the mysterious case out to his employer. Nucky took it in hand, studying it closely without opening the latch.

"I see she managed just fine last night."

"What's. In the suitcase?"

"That's none of your concern." He placed the case in a large desk drawer and locked it tight. "She's something, that sister of yours. I suppose you taught her how to shoot."

"Actually. She taught me."

A flicker of surprised crossed Nucky's face. He tossed back his drink and continued. "Have her come see me this afternoon. I have another job for her."

"No."

Nucky stepped towards him. "No?"

"I won't let her. Work for you."

"That's not your decision." He set the glass on his desk definitively. "Have her come see me." His definitive tone was as much of a dismissal as Richard needed. The masked man turned to leave, but Nucky called out to him. "And keep a low profile—you didn't kill everyone that night."

His warning burned in Richard's ears. He was well aware that things had long since begun to spiral out of control, and that he hadn't much time to set things right again.


	10. Chapter 10

"Ms. Harrow," Nucky exclaimed at the sight of her, returning his attention to the task before him almost immediately. "I was surprised to see your brother this morning."

Emma ignored this and shifted her attention to the boxes that dotted the floor. "Going somewhere, Mr. Thompson?"

"I'm lowering my profile. Can't have strange women tracking me down so easily." He opened a desk drawer and began placing knick-knacks in a crate before him. "I trust Mickey Doyle didn't give you much trouble."

"Mr. Doyle is a fool, but he'll have your shipments in order by this evening."

"What makes you so sure?"

"He's not foolish enough to let himself be killed by a girl, is he?"

"With Mickey Doyle, your guess is as good as mine." Nucky smiled and continued placing items in the waiting crate. "I'm impressed, Ms. Harrow. I know a lot of men with half your gumption." He stepped out from behind the large desk and approached her, lowering his voice. "How would you like to work for me full-time?"

"One job and we're already making long-term plans; I'm touched."

Nucky shot her a look and continued. "I need people I can trust on the coast. Sure as hell isn't gonna be Mickey fucking Doyle."

"And what exactly does such a job entail?"

As he filled her in on the details, her mind began to wander to visions of settling down by the sea, spending her sleepless predawn hours commanding respect from Nucky's men. She saw herself clutching a rifle and standing square-footed on the shore, gazing out at the fleets of ships as they emptied their cargo onto the sand. Her heart leapt at the thought, but she knew to play her cards close to the chest. "I'll consider it," she said coldly.

"That's all I ask."

"May I ask one question?"

He was already moving back to the desk. "Shoot," he called behind him.

"What's in the valise?"

He paused, his shoulders tensed, then bent to release a low drawer. When he rose he carried a small case, the same one she had retrieved for him last night; she took a step forward to peer inside.

Two amber-filled bottles were nestled within the folded leather, but it was neither of these that Nucky pulled from its depths. Instead, he clutched a small wooden box in his slender hands, its lid intricately carved into a delicate rose.

"A jewelry box?" she asked.

"A music box. From my wife's hometown." He lifted the lid, unleashing the plucked notes of a lilting melody.

"It's lovely."

"If only that were enough." His basset hound eyes reflected a world of hidden heartache.

"Mr. Thompson, I don't mean to pry, but—" She approached the desk, choosing her words carefully. "—'tis a rare woman who's affection can be purchased."

His voice was quiet, menacing, unaccustomed to her candor. "You don't know me, and you don't know my wife," he breathed.

"That may well be, but I know women. And I know that men are wont to underestimate us." She backed away from him, her chin aloft. "I'll consider your offer, Mr. Thompson."

"You do that." Not a trace of warmth lined his tone as she left the room.

* * *

The ringing of the bell may not have awoken her, but thankfully she wasn't asleep. Some knot of misplaced dread had settled into her stomach hours before, and she was curled up in an old armchair, a steaming cup of tea beside her and a forgettable book in hand. The bell startled her, not least of all for of the hour.

"Who is it?" she called unsteadily, the words trembling into the night as she pulled open the front door. "Who's there?"

"Me," came the low growl of the only person to whom she had given any thought these past several nights. The sound of his voice put her instinctively at ease, but something about his tone propelled her towards him with concern.

He stood several steps back—for once it was she who towered above him. He clutched Tommy to his chest, the tiny boy motionless in pajamas and blanket-cocoon. His face was nestled into Richard's neck; Richard looked determinedly at the ground.

She reached for the light and he stopped her. "Don't. Turn on the light." A car rumbled slowly behind him, and he seemed to shrink further into the shadows.

"Why?" she asked, suspiciously. Still, he looked away, hugging Tommy's limp body close. "What happened? Richard—are you all right?"

"Neither of us. Has been hurt."

Some comfort that was. "What does that mean?"

A light came on behind her, illuminating his face: his skin was splattered with blood, stretching in tendrils over the edges of his mask. She backed away before she could stop herself, horrified by his barbaric warpaint.

"It's not our blood," was all he could say.

She could feel her father standing behind her in the doorway, but her focus remain locked on the man before her. "Then who's is it?"

"Take the boy," Paul said curtly. She swung her head around to look at him, silently begging him not to interfere, though glad for the diversion all the same. She stepped towards Richard, who rose dutifully to meet her. As he passed Tommy into her arms, their eyes met. His was the eye she knew so well, the deep chameleon grey that she saw when she closed her own, that soothed her when life and her father made all hope seem lost. His was not the eye of a killer.

"Upstairs. Fred's room," Paul commanded.

"I need to know what's going on," she pleaded.

"Just take him up." He was stern, but sweetly so, as if he were shielding her from some harsh reality, like when she was a girl. "Julia, please."

Still she waited for Richard to intervene, to insist on telling her the truth, here and now. She studied his bloodstained face, turned away from her once more, but he didn't say a word.

"Turn off that lamp," Paul whispered as she carried Tommy past him. She couldn't bring herself to look back before she did as she was told.

* * *

He was drawn to her without a conscious thought, a siren calling him ashore. She sat on the sand, knees tucked to her chin and eyes fixed on the greying waves. "You sure picked a good place to disappear," Emma said dreamily, without looking up.

Richard took a seat beside her, folding his limbs awkwardly with eyes trained on the billowing clouds pooling on the horizon. "Looks. Like rain," he said softly, propping a long arm over his knee.

"We should get the chickens back into the coop."

He smiled, memories of rain-soaked afternoons spent sketching his lovely sister as she sat restlessly by the window lulling him into easy, nostalgic comfort.

"Nucky offered me a job," she said, her eyes still on the waves.

"I thought. He already had."

"This one's permanent."

He swallowed laboredly, the clicking of his throat masked by the roar of the waves. "What about. The farm?"

She laughed, dropping her gaze to her lap. "I'd be lying to myself if I said it was going swimmingly back home. I should have given up on it years ago, when Ma and Pa died, but then I never was one to run away from my problems."

"You shouldn't. Trust him."

"You're the one who works for him." She looked at him, finally, her eyes a more mesmerizing blue-grey than the deepest ocean.

"Just because. I won't kill him. Doesn't mean that. I trust him."

Emma sighed, the weight of the world in her lungs, and took his hand. The air was quickly cooling around them, the tourists gathering their blankets and heading back to the boardwalk under a chorus of shrieking gulls. For one blissful moment, the Harrow twins simply stared out at the water, the sister who loved him relentlessly and the brother willing himself to feel that way for her again. Every moment with her brought the feeling inching closer, yet still it was just beyond his reach.

"Julia's waiting," she said finally, tucking her legs beneath her to raise her weary bones from the sand; she kept a hold on his hand to steady herself. "Will you come for dinner this time?"

"I. Don't think—"

"Please, Richard. You don't have to marry her, but don't you think you owe her an explanation?"

He considered this, weighing the possible outcomes in his mind, then nodded once with a grunt and let her help him to his feet.

* * *

"I ain't waiting any longer," Paul grumbled as he tucked into his cooling meal.

"Dad—"

"Nobody's making me wait to eat dinner in my own fucking house." He shoveled a large bite into his mouth, ignoring his daughter's exasperated sigh.

Julia looked at Tommy, his large eyes staring up at her expectantly, and gave him a small nod. He had just taken his first bite when the front door swung open.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Emma called, making her way towards the dining room and shaking a light spray of misty rain from her coat.

"I'm sorry Fatty Arbuckle couldn't wait—" Julia's words caught in her throat as she looked up to see Richard, hat in hand, standing at the threshold. "Richard," she said, a tad overzealously.

Emma cleared her throat. "Why don't Paul and I keep an eye on Tommy for a little while? That okay with you, pal?" She took a seat beside the boy, who swallowed an oversized bite and stared up at his former caretaker.

"I wanna go with Richard," Tommy whined.

"I'll. Come back," Richard promised, but remained steadfast in the doorway, waiting for her. In a nerve-wracked daze, Julia set her napkin down and rose from the table to lead Richard to the porch.

The fading light diffused their features as they stood, mere inches from each other but a world apart. Her resolve told her to wait for him to speak, but she knew that would leave them here all night. "It's good to see you," she muttered, hoping her words conveyed any of the complex emotions behind them.

"I. Owe you. An apology."

"For what?" she stuttered, though she knew full well to what he was referring.

"That night."

"You really don't have to."

"No. You deserve. To know the truth."

He was looking at her now, his eye insistently trained on hers. His pain was visible in white knuckles and quivering lips, and the pit in her stomach deepened as she waited for his confession.

"I've killed," he began, slowly, carefully. "A lot. Of people."

"During the war," she urged.

"And. After." He dropped his eye to his feet, drawing a nervous circle on the paint-chipped beams of the porch with his toe.

She swallowed the lump of foreboding in her throat and asked, "How many is a lot?"

His throat clicked before the words came out. "Seventy. Eight."

Julia felt her knees weaken and groped in the dark for the doorframe to steady herself. "Jesus," she breathed.

"I came. To say goodbye," he continued. "You deserve. A good man. Better. Than me."

"Richard—"

"I only wanted. To tell you. The truth." He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

"Don't leave," she said, reaching out to him. "You told Tommy you wouldn't. Listen," she pulled him close, holding both of his hands in her own, "I'll need some time to…wrap my head around all of this. But it doesn't change anything."

"It should."

"Now you're telling me how to think too?" They both smiled at this, but the smiles quickly faded as the reality of the situation sunk in once more.

"I have to. Leave town. For a while."

"That's probably a good idea."

"I can. Take Tommy."

"No, that's no life for him. Not because you're a mur—Jesus, what's wrong with me? I just meant—"

"I know. What you meant."

"I just think," she insisted, "that Tommy needs a stable home for a while. We have room for him here, we can make it work until your ready."

He looked up at her, not grasping her meaning.

"To come home."

He nodded, pulling away. "You shouldn't. Wait for me."

"I won't make any promises I can't keep." She smiled before lifting herself on tip-toes to kiss him with all of the tenderness she could offer him. He brushed her cheek with a gentle hand, always so surprised by her willingness to be so close to him, then laced both arms around her and held her as close as their bodies would allow. She had never felt safer.

When they returned to the table, the conversation ceased. "You joining us, your highness?" Paul ribbed.

"No. Thank you. I should go."

Tommy threw his fork down and jumped from his seat, ignoring the grown-ups protestations. He ran to Richard, throwing his arms around his leg, and cried, "Don't go, Richard!"

The masked man knelt down to his eye-level, patting his shoulder affectionately. "You need to. Be strong now. I have to. Go away for awhile."

"Are you gonna look for my mother?"

Richard grunted, neither confirming nor denying the boy's assertion. He simply pulled the boy in for a hug, two chubby little arms wrapped tight around his neck.

Julia stood to take Tommy's hand as Richard freed himself, tears in his eye. "Keep your nose clean," she called as he reached the door.

* * *

It was midmorning when the two women entered the hospital, striding purposefully down the long corridor. "Are you sure about this?" the taller of the two asked in hushed tones. "She's not exactly _all there_."

"If Tommy is gonna be my responsibility, then it's only right someone let her know."

Gillian was seated upright in bed when they approached, her face made up primly and her hair set. She looked up with a practiced smile. "May I help you?" she asked, chin lifted as if she were perched on a throne.

"Mrs. Darmody?" Emma began, but Julia stepped forward.

"My name is Julia Sagorsky."

A flash of recognition crossed the woman's face. "Julia. My caretaker's charity girl."

"Excuse me?" Emma stepped forward, incensed, but Julia pulled her back.

"I want my son back," Gillian continued, eyes narrowed threateningly.

"He's not your son."

"He belongs with me."

"In a hospital?" Julia laughed at the thought.

"Don't you dare," the madame warned.

"I don't know what you're inferring—"

"I'm his mother!" There was a fire in Gillian's eyes that made her guests recoil.

Julia stepped as close as she dared, her voice low. "You're his grandma, and you're in no position to care for him right now. I can provide a safe home for him until you're well enough to take him back."

"You little—"

"Watch it, Mrs. Darmody." Emma rose to her full, imposing height. A nurse looked up from a nearby bed, eyeing them dubiously.

"I think we're done here," Gillian said, the honey gone from her voice.

"Mrs. Darmody," Julia pleaded. "I just wanted you to know that he's safe."

"Get out," she whispered, turning away. The nurse took a threatening step forward.

"Let's go," Emma muttered, steering Julia away.

"I brought you here to get him back for me!" Gillian yelled after them. "You little farm bitch! You can't do this! I want my son back!"

The nurse brought a syringe to her, and soon her screams had dulled into euphoria once more.


	11. Chapter 11

Richard was bent over an open drawer of the small dresser, shoulders hunched and hands busy, when his sister entered the room without a knock. Her eyes fell on the suitcase almost immediately, and the small stacks of neatly-folded clothes contained therein. "Leaving so soon?" she smirked.

"You act like. I have a choice." He kept his back to her as he closed the empty drawer and moved to the closet.

While her brother fiddled with his guns behind the door, Emma wandered to the nightstand. She ran her fingertips over the lace runner and down to the small drawer below. Inside was a neat stack of books, fat with paste-thickened pages, that screamed to be examined further. She lifted the first out of its nest and opened carefully: the first pages were filled with a cramped tally; from there each page was a collage of magazine clippings—smiling sweethearts, rose-cheeked children, modest family kitchens, and the like. Though she smiled, her heart was suddenly filled with a rush of pity for her poor, lonely twin.

His large hands slipped around the book and pulled it gently from her hands. "Did you make that?" she asked as he nestled the it atop a stack of shirts.

He hummed and nodded, cheek flushed.

"It's lovely. Reminds me of those drawings you used to do," she smiled. "You were very good."

"I just. Drew you. As I saw you. While you told stories."

"Then I'm truly flattered." She took a seat beside the suitcase, peaking inside another of his books. This one contained a photograph of he and Tommy and Julia; Richard had turned his face to stare adoringly at his paramour, effectively hiding the mask from posterity's view. They made such a sweet little family that it suddenly seemed crazy to her that he would run from it so willingly, regardless of his moral dilemma. "Where are you going?" she asked, feigning nonchalance.

"I'm. Not sure. I bought. A train ticket."

"Without a destination? What a maverick."

He lifted the second book from her hands and said, softly, "I don't want you. To work. For Nucky." His eye bore into hers, its changeling iris pleading.

"Who says I haven't already taken the job?"

"I told you. I don't. Trust him."

"Trust or not," she said, smoothing a tie within the suitcase, "I'm not going back to the farm without you."

He nodded, averting his gaze, and returned to the closet.

"I can come with you."

"No."

"But—"

"I don't need. To be taken. Care of." He placed a box at the crest of his belongings and closed the lid of the case, fastening it firmly and enclosing his meager possessions in a cocoon of worn leather.

"We can take care of each other." She took his hand in her own, squeezing it reassuringly. "Like we always have."

"It's. Different now." He pulled his hand away and lifted the suitcase from the bed.

"Doesn't mean we can't—"

"_I'm_. Different, Sis."

"You keep telling me that," she said, rising to snake her arms around his waist, "but all I hear is that you _want_ to be different. You want to leave me so badly, then fine. Go. But it's about time you stopped making bullshit excuses for yourself—"

He leaned in, achingly close. His boldness was startling, unfamiliar, and for a moment she was mesmerized by his lips so near to hers, their breathing in tormented tandem. But she lifted a hand between them, eyes downcast as she pushed her desire at bay. She shook her head, her eyes a wordless warning, and left him to his packing.

He was oblivious, she was sure—at the very least until she had left the building—of his rifle now missing from its hook, but then he had so very many to spare.

* * *

When he arrived at the hospital, the nurse gave him a grave look and excused herself to consult with an older, stern-looking nun, who nodded and approached him.

"Mr. Harrow," she said quietly, "I'm afraid that Mrs. Darmody is no longer with us."

Richard felt his heart drop, as if he had missed a step on the stairs. "She's. Dead?'

The nurse looked surprised. "No, no, she…well, she slipped out." She recoiled, clearly preparing herself for a tirade, but Richard merely sucked in a drop of errant saliva and pivoted his head slowly back and forth, searching for an appropriate response. A part of him was outraged, yes, but another was glad that she had freed herself of this place, this place that brought nothing but anxiety and painful, foggy memories to his own psyche and couldn't have fared much better for hers.

"Thank you," he grumbled politely, and stepped away from the desk while his hands worked hard at systematically crushing the hat between them.

As his stiff legs carried him away, he heard an odd sound to his right, somewhere between a hiss and a whistle. He turned to see an elderly woman perched in a high-backed wooden wheelchair, beckoning him towards her.

"You looking for the redhead?" she whispered, clandestinely. Richard nodded, crouching beside her, and she continued. "I saw her. Just up and walked out like she owned the place. But I've seen her around; I know she's batty."

"Did she. Say anything?"

The woman's eyes narrowed and glazed, her lips pursed in a tiny O as she slowly shook her head. Suddenly, she grabbed Richard's arm with an exclamation. "I did hear her say something about…something about looking for her son."

_Her son_. Had she meant her real son, or the surrogate he had taken from her? Either way, it was none of his concern. Tommy was safe where Gillian couldn't find him, and Jimmy was long gone. He felt a reflexive pang of remorse for letting her go when she no doubt needed him most, but he had worries of his own, worries that couldn't be tucked away with a drink or a needle. Gillian was a grow woman; he just hoped that was enough.

He nodded to the little old woman with a grunt of thanks and continued on his way.

* * *

Julia stood on the lawn under the clothesline, the sheets she pinned to it billowing in the June breeze. The air was balmy, the clouds above warning of a summer rain. She wiped her brow and reached for another sheet as Emma and Tommy wandered towards her, hand in hand and deep in conversation.

Tommy ran up to her first. "Can I go upstairs and play?" he said brightly, though always with a seriousness that startled her.

"On a nice day like this? You sure?"

He nodded, and she cocked her head towards the house and smiled as he trotted off past her. Now it was Emma's turn, tendrils of her dark hair fluttering around her face as she sauntered up to her friend. "I wanted to tell you," she began, but bit back the words.

"Yes?" Julia fastened a clothespin in place and gave her friend her full attention.

"I'm leaving. Tonight, actually."

Julia stared slack-jawed at the woman before her. "But you just got here."

"You knew I couldn't stay forever."

"Hey, I don't think we ever agreed to that."

Emma laughed and bent to lift a damp sheet from the basket. A golden stream of sunlight spilled through the building clouds, bathing them in its warmth as they made quick work of the afternoon chore.

"Will you go back to the farm?" Julia asked, wiping her hands on her apron.

"Eventually. For now…I don't know."

Julia nodded, remembering her friend's wanderlust with a weary smile.

"What about you?"

"Me?" Julia snorted. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of stuck here."

"I mean—what will you do with Tommy?"

She sighed, lifting the empty basket to rest on her hip. "I suppose," she replied, "just try to give him as normal a life as I can. Isn't that what we all want?"

"Normal is relative," Emma said, rolling her eyes.

"Emma, please don't go," Julia pleaded. "What will I do without you here?"

"You'll survive," she answered, without a hint of sarcasm. "You will live and you will make life better for a sweet little boy and an old man just trying to get by. You're worth more than your lot, you know. You can handle anything."

"And you? Should I be worried?"

"About me?" Emma smiled a mischievous smile. "I'll be just fine." She pulled Julia in for a hug, kissing her cheek tenderly. "Besides," she said softly, "I'm sure we'll see each other again. Now come on, let me make dinner tonight. It's the least I can do." And they strode arm-in-arm into the house.

* * *

He waited in the shadows well into the night, as he had so many times before, daring not to blink as he stood sentry over the house that held his greatest treasures in the world within its walls. After several hours, he saw her emerge, suitcase in hand, and climb into a waiting car—maybe a taxi, maybe not. He set off after her in the car he'd taken from Rosetti's men that night. It had served him well, though he still felt a tinge of guilt that it had doubtless belonged to a man who had died by his hand. Unlike the hard-fought victories of the war, his kills here didn't call for trophies.

The black car moved through the streets with ease in the quiet wee hours, finally turning off of the main road to snake down a winding beachside path. It kept to the side road for some time, leading them further and further out of town. He was glad for the slow procession—he was unaccustomed to driving with only one eye, especially at night. But he soldiered on, eye trained on the car ahead of him, trying desperately to ignore the crippling darkness of the shore at his side. He never had adapted to the strange, empty feeling that such insistent nothingness inspired within him.

They finally slowed at a grouping of cars and trucks near the sand. A crowd of men meandered about, smoking and chatting in the dark. Emma hopped down from the car before it had fully come to a stop and approached a man who looked to be in charge of things, though he knew from experience that appearance could be deceiving.

Richard parked far enough from the crowd to keep from drawing undue attention to himself, and disembarked from his vehicle without a sound. Ducking behind bushes and cars, his eye darted continuously back to the beach. He could just barely make out Emma's shouted commands from afar over the rhythmic roar of the waves, but he could see her just fine: the nucleus of the crowd, rifle held high enough for an accurate shot to be little more than a reflex. She looked dangerous, and magnificent—Artemis in the moonlight.

With another word, the crowd broke and men scattered into position. In no time, the crates began to flow in from a moored ship just visible offshore. Emma marched through the rows of men, pausing in their midst to survey the scene. It was his chance.

He approached her so soundlessly that the men paid him no mind. "Emma," he growled, mere feet from her.

She swung around to face him, rifle aimed between his eyes, amidst a chorus of guns drawn by the men surrounding him following suit, all pointed towards a common target. He instinctively drew his own, aiming it at the most threatening foe: the woman before him.

"You said. You wouldn't take it," he stammered, rifle steady.

"I said no such thing and you know it." She stared him dead in the eye, mirroring his calm. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"I came. To stop you."

"From what?"

His lip quivered, words failing him.

"You're not going to shoot me, Richard. We both know it." Yet her gun remained aloft.

With stiff, unsure movements, he lowered his weapon, never taking his eye from her.

"Stand down," she cried, eyes fixed on him. The men did as commanded. "Now get back to work." She lowered her rifle (_his_ rifle—when had she taken it from him?) and trudge towards him, grabbing his arm forcefully to steer him past a sea of whispers ("It's him!" "The guy who shot up Rosetti's guys!" "Masked freak!") towards relative seclusion.

"I will say this once and never again," she said, voice low and hurried. "You cannot force me to do what you want. Not when you don't even know what that is."

He shook his head, words careening through his anxious mind in a jumbled blur.

"I'm not a picture in your book. You hear me? I'm not an idea; I'm your sister. Your flesh-and-blood sister, and I don't care what you think is right or wrong for me, it is _my_ life."

"But. I love you." He reached for her hand, but she pulled it from his reach.

"Whatever this is," she said wearily, "this game of yours? It sure as hell isn't love." She turned and headed back to the beach, swallowed by the sea are and the darkness and the lightly falling rain, and leaving him rooted to the spot still searching for the right words to call her back to him.


	12. Chapter 12

The moon hung high in the sky when she slipped through the door, as she did every night. Richard scooted his small frame to one side to accommodate her, and she climbed under the quilt and into his waiting arms without missing a beat. Wrapped in each other's tiny arms, the hum of crickets and low hoots of owls on the hunt singing a gentle country lullaby, he wondered if she had already drifted off to sleep. "Emma?" he whispered, his voice high and hushed.

"Yes?" she yawned.

"Will you tell me a story?"

She squeezed his hand and propped herself up against the pillows; he followed suit, fitting himself into the crook of her arm. She spoke softly, soothingly, careful not to disturb the delicate quiet of the evening. "Have I ever told you about the lost city of Atlantis?"

He shook his head, staring up at her wide-eyed.

"Once upon a time," she began, "there was a beautiful city on a beach. It was the loveliest city in the land; the buildings were made of the finest marble, and the streets were paved with gold. The people were rich and greedy. They conquered other cities and got richer and richer, and all of their treasures piled up until you couldn't walk down the street without tripping over someone's jewels."

"What happened to it?"

"Well, eventually their treasures got so heavy that the city sunk under the weight of them. Right into the ocean!"

Richard gasped. "The whole city?"

"The whole city. All of it just sunk straight down, and it was never seen again."

"That's sad," he said wearily.

"What's so sad about it?"

"All those people."

"But the people were bad," she replied, squeezing him reassuringly. "They got what they deserved."

"Maybe they weren't so bad," he said meekly. "Maybe they just didn't know any better."

"You always see the best in people." She jabbed him in the ribs with her finger, and then er eyes glazed over, staring into a spot of nothing in the middle distance. "Wouldn't it be wonderful to disappear into the sea like that?"

"But you'd die." His voice was heavy with sadness at the thought of losing her.

"Not me," she said, shaking her head with a confident smile. "I'd become a mermaid and swim away."

"You could do that?"

"Sure I could. Who says I couldn't?"

"Could I disappear, too?"

She hugged him close and kissed his temple. "Of course you could."

She held him close, his arms threaded around her waist as if he wouldn't let her go for anything in the world. They sat like that for some time, Richard's mind reeling from the thought of his beautiful sister flitting through jewel-bright waters with a tail as long and graceful as her silky black hair, glimmering in the shifting sunlight. At some point, the fantasy transformed into a wonderful dream, and they slept soundly through the night in each other's arms, as always.

* * *

At the first sliver of sunlight breaking over the horizon, Emma's eyes fluttered open. She was seated in the driver's seat of the black car that had brought her to the shore the night before, though the grouping of cars that had surrounded it hours before were now long gone. A guilty knot settled into her stomach, remembering her harsh words for her brother. She stretched her aching limbs gratefully, pivoting her head to check on the suitcase resting on the seat behind her that contained her compensation for the night's work, and started the ignition.

Atlantic City was just beginning to wake when she crossed into town. As she pulled past the boardwalk, she stole one last glance at its rain-slicked beams and wondered if she ever would return. A part of her was certain that she would—there was something about this place, something magical and mysterious, that she had yet to fully understand, but it was only a matter of time before it would call her back again.

Her mind wandered to Julia, and to Tommy, and to Paul. Not one of them had asked for their lot in life, but then again, who had? She knew that Julia would make the most of it, for all of their sakes. She was stronger than she knew, and Emma hoped that, in time, she would come to realize it for herself.

She retraced her first steps to the train station with ease, smiling at the memory of the naive farm girl who had climbed with trepidation from the train car only a week before. That girl had let her brother hold all of life's hope and happiness; this woman knew better.

Richard was seated stiffly on a bench, suitcase at his feet, valise on his lap, and rifle bag propped beside him. He stared straight ahead, his mind doubtless an anxious cacophony from the uncertainty of his future. He thrived on preparation; his acceptance of this newfound unpredictability was a harbinger of his evolution, and this brought yet another smile to her face.

She pulled the car as close as she could and called out to him, "Can I give you a lift?" She hoped her weary smile would serve as an unspoken apology.

He nodded once and approached the car. "Where. Are you going?" he asked.

"I'm not sure. I suppose I might just disappear into the sea."

"I'll. Disappear. With you."

He climbed into the seat beside her and grasped her waiting hand. They didn't say another word; they didn't need to. Things would never be so simple as they once were, and perhaps, in time, their paths would diverge again, but for now she simply basked in the comfort of having him here beside her. Hand in hand, with the sea and the rising sun at their backs, they drove on.


End file.
